A Cloud Before the Moon
by Mehitobel
Summary: Once in a while, even Severus Snape has a chance of being happy. Too bad he's his own worst obstacle.
1. Prologue: The History of Snape, Black a

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

                                                                   Prologue

For nearly five-hundred years, the Snape family had been part of one of the most profitable and renowned business establishments in history. In the late fifteenth century, Paracletus Snape had partnered with another ambitious adventurer, Algathor Black, to form Black & Snape's Emporium of Magic. Their success was immediate, and they soon had a number of Procurers in their employ, who traveled the globe in search of potion ingredients, rare wand filaments, magical creatures, and all manner of items necessary to practitioners of both light and dark magic.

During the late seventeenth century, Rabotham Snape had invited into the business a young French competitor who called himself Guillaume, le Marquis de Malfoi. Snape and his partner, Ozymandias Black, persuaded Guillaume to anglicize his name and they continued to expand their sphere of business as Black, Snape and Malfoy. Malfoy, in particular, saw to it that their fame and profits soared. He added to their inventory Muggles obtained by purchase or abduction, which they then sold to well-heeled wizards, no questions asked, at very steep prices. As William Malfoy explained, they were doing nothing that the Muggles were not already doing to themselves. When Ozymandias Black showed some reluctance to pursue an avenue of business so thoroughly illegal, he and his eldest son died of mysterious causes. His widow and younger son were shut out of the business, which carried on thereafter as Snape and Malfoy.

In the early twentieth century, the Ministry of Magic began making serious efforts to regulate the procurement and sale of magical items, creatures and artifacts, particularly those used in the Dark Arts. The costs and risks eventually became too steep to carry on the business. No doubt, many people would have considered the more limited trade in lawful items to be sufficiently profitable, but Snape and Malfoy were not accustomed to such limitations.

By the mid-1930s the partnership had dissolved, and the business liquidated. However, the shares were not evenly divided. Therebald Snape had dissipated most of his fortune on gambling, whores, and mind-altering potions. He had borrowed thousands of galleons from the business, and when the balance was reckoned, came away with a small fraction of it. At his death, he left his family nearly penniless, with a ruined reputation and no prospects. His son Balthazar was left to make his own fortune as best he could.

The situation for the Malfoy family was quite different. Therebald's former partner, and his son Darius, parlayed his very substantial share of the business into a number of successful ventures, all the while maintaining a profitable black-market trade in Dark Arts supplies. The Malfoys achieved an unparalleled level of prestige and respectability, moving in all the right circles, on close terms with top Ministry officials, a number of whom were on the family's payroll.

As he saw it, Balthazar Snape had been cheated out of his legacy. He had been born after the demise of the family business. Comparing his condition to Darius Malfoy's, he was certain that his misfortune was the result of his father's profligacy and debauchery. Unfortunately, what he had inherited were his father's intemperate desires. In his early twenties, he had been a slender, handsome young man, but he soon grew meaty and bloated, his bitterness increasing with his girth.

Whatever money had been left from the business, his father had placed in a trust fund, managed by the goblins at Gringotts, who could not be persuaded to advance any sums against the account. Balthazar resented this terribly, but it was his father's one wise financial decision. Otherwise, Balthazar would likely have lost what he did own - a rundown manor house, an old house-elf and enough to support his family and a variety of personal excesses without resorting to actual work.

Balthazar was not without a sense of ambition; however. He made numerous and valiant efforts to insinuate himself into the favor of Darius Malfoy, but for reasons Balthazar could not quite comprehend, Darius had no interest in welcoming Snape as a close associate. Of course, they were invited to the celebration in honor of the birth of the Malfoy's son, Lucius, but that was hardly remarkable; the entire wizarding community, or at least, its proper pureblood families, was invited to the lavish extravaganza. Several years later, Balthazar's wife Eris gave birth to a son, and the new father was elated. It was not so much that he was transformed by the joys of fatherhood, and in fact, did his level best to avoid the responsibilities that go along with bringing up a child, but rather, the birth of the boy reawakened a sense of purpose in him. Now there was new hope for improving his lot in life! Balthazar decided that his infant son Severus should become the Malfoy child's closest confidant and advisor. Uncharacteristically, his wife was in complete agreement with him on this issue, and the Snapes raised Severus with that goal in mind. At a very early age, the boy came to understand that the responsibility of reclaiming the financial and social standing befitting the family heritage was thrust upon his thin shoulders.


	2. In the Comfort of Shadows

**Summary:** It isn't easy to get to close to Severus Snape. It's not impossible; after all, sometimes one simply falls into unusual friendships. The problem is, there is frequently an obstacle in the way. More often than not, that obstacle is Severus Snape.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
**Author notes:** Tremendous thanks to the Harem Ladies, most especially Susan, and to my beta, June.

Chapter 1

As long as he could remember, when his mother was displeased with him, she would lock him in the dungeon. It seemed that she was often displeased. If he cried, if he appeared inattentive or unhappy, if he disobeyed, or, simply, if she was feeling out of sorts, Mother would banish him to the dungeons. At first, he was terrified of being shut up in the dark, cold, filthy place, and would huddle himself in a corner, shivering with cold and fear of the rats and spiders.

By the time he was five years old, Severus no longer feared being banished to the dungeons. In fact, he had come to think of it as a private sanctuary where no one would bother him. He could stay by himself, and would not be disturbed there by his parents, nor by Lucius Malfoy's vile cronies, the troll-like Crabbe and Goyle. They might chase him down the stairs, taunting him and guffawing stupidly as they lumbered after him, but they never followed him into the recesses of the damp, musty rooms. Down there, he had set up a space for himself, and had plenty of room for books and cauldrons and vials and an assortment of potion ingredients which grew more extensive and sophisticated as he got older. He would prepare increasingly complex potions and drafts simply for the pleasure of it. He would often spend an entire day in the dungeon, reading by candlelight, to the soothing sounds of simmering liquids.

Severus was not quite the son his father had hoped for. More accurately, in fact, he was a huge disappointment. A colicky, sickly infant, he did not grow any more loveable with time. Oh, he was obedient enough. Severus would do exactly as he was told. Yet, there was something defiant in his obedience. To Balthazar's ears, every "Yes sir" the boy uttered seemed to drip with irony, disgust, and even, perhaps, a tone of superiority. Of course, the child was very bright. Though he wouldn't admit it even to himself, Balthazar knew this unpleasant, homely, socially backward, stubborn boy was unquestionably his intellectual superior. Balthazar was afraid of him.

There were constant fights in the house. Balthazar and Eris Snape had not gotten along very well for years, but their solution was to avoid one another as much as possible. However, having a child in the house made communication occasionally necessary, and the only communication that seemed to take place involved shouting and insults. To make matters worse, Eris was deprived of her escape. In the past, after a bad fight, she would take off for weeks or even months to the house of her sister Doris. Now that she had a young child, she dared not leave him alone with his father and the house-elf for more than a few days at a time. She may not have liked the boy much, she may not have paid him much mind, but she was, inescapably, his mother.

Doris was blessed with daughters. Eris would have given anything to have daughters. What she did not see however, because her visits were less and less frequent, were the problems that could accompany raising three little girls, all beautiful, strong-headed and unwilling to share attention with one another. The older two girls were so different, their wants, needs and interests were so dissimilar, that they lived in a sort of uneasy détente without major incident. Eventually, Narcissa and Andromeda would becme virulent enemies, but for now, they got on primarily by mutual avoidance.

Doris' youngest, Bellatrix, utterly changed life in the Black household. Bella demanded utter and complete attention. The exquisite child was the apple of her parents' eyes. They would grant her every request, unable to resist the slightest hint of a pout on the little Cupid-bow mouth or the flutter of her thick eyelashes over her large dark eyes. Narcissa, who had always been the absolute darling of the entire Black family, was livid. More than once, she had attempted to cause the untimely demise of her baby sister. But Bella was no ordinary baby; she was remarkably capable of taking care of herself.

When Doris Black suggested to Eris that Narcissa could benefit from some time in the country with her dear aunt, Eris was elated! Finally, she would have some company. Finally, she would have someone with whom to share her misery. No more suffering alone with that beastly pig of a husband and that horrible little brat. She immediately hired a decorator to turn the largest bedroom into fit accommodations for her niece.

It had taken a substantial bribe to prod Narcissa into spending the summer with her Snape relatives. She was accustomed to the city. She was accustomed to luxury and style and elegance. The Snapes' rundown dump, in the middle of nowhere (it seemed to her), was beyond bearing. Her room wasn't bad, but the heavy-handed gilding and the effusive floral pattern (walls, rugs, bedding, you name it) was unmistakably provincial. Then there was the fact that _she_ was the one who'd been sent off. That snotty little rugrat had won the battle.

Still, there were compensations. For one thing, Aunt Eris thought the world rose and set on Narcissa. Father would have nothing to do with the Muggle businesses, but Narcissa had seen the magazines her mother hid away. They had things that you just couldn't find in Diagon Alley. Aunt Eris had opened a charge account for her at the best London stores. And the locals were all enchanted with the new girl. In particular, she had really hit it off with the Malfoy boy. Narcissa was sure there was real promise for that relationship. She wasn't going to let it slip through her fingers; especially when Aunt Eris told her that the Malfoys were wealthy and powerful. Even if it meant spending most of her time at the dreadful Snape house, she would make sure that Lucius Malfoy would not forget Narcissa Black.

In this house, too, there was a little brat to put up with, but Severus was an improvement over Bella. For one thing, he certainly could not compete with her for anyone's attention or affection. No one liked him much, really. And he was such an odd, awkward, little thing. Narcissa found a certain pleasure in ridiculing whatever the boy did. She always knew she could get a laugh by pointing out her cousin's clumsiness, his ridiculous lisp, or one of his other short-comings, all the many features of Severus Snape that made him so very much her inferior. Best of all, she knew she wouldn't get in any trouble. Nobody cared. Not even Severus, it seemed. Oh, it bothered him, no doubt, but it was the oddest thing. The boy never tried to fight back. He just tolerated her tormenting, her insults, her goading, as if he simply accepted it as his lot. She suspected that he loathed her, and could retaliate if he wanted, but he never let on.

The Snapes wished their son were more like Lucius Malfoy. Severus Snape wished he was more like Lucius Malfoy, too. Lucius, an elegant boy with slick blond hair and sharp patrician features, was cunning and ambitious beyond his years. Later on, as he reached adolescence, he would develop into a tall, thin, elegant young man, while Severus would generally be described in terms such as "skinny" and "gangly", with his sickly pallor, bad skin, and a large hawklike nose, out of proportion to his narrow face. His unhealthy appearance was accentuated by comparison to a thick scalp of greasy black hair, the appearance of which he rarely attempted to improve.

Unlike Lucius, Severus seemed to lack the social graces necessary to ensure future success, and to his parents' bitter dismay, did not seem to care. Despite their frequent reminders of his shortcomings, Severus failed to show any interest in improving himself, at least as far as they could tell. It was true, however, that he was quite intelligent, and early on, developed a reputation as a sneaky, cunning boy.

It seemed to Balthazar Snape that his son intentionally contravened his plans to form a bond with the Malfoys. Severus did not seem to care that his Black cousin, in his stead, had weaseled her way into Lucius' affections. It was not so. Severus had genuinely attempted to become Lucius' indispensable confidant, but Lucius seemed to prefer to surround himself with his intellectual inferiors. Severus tried to make up for his youth and lack of social skill by exhibiting a fierce loyalty to Lucius and a willingness, even an eagerness, to prowl and spy on others, to do, in fact, whatever it was that Lucius or his father should ask of him. He was clever, tenacious and carried a chip on his shoulder, a combination that made him invaluable to Lucius, but also presented a potential threat. It would be quite some time before Severus would come to understand that. He did, however, recognize why Lucius kept the two trolls around him. They showed little talent for spell-casting or potion-making, but they were quite proficient at causing physical pain by non-magical means. Sometimes they would torment Severus for their own amusement, or that of Lucius, who would then apologize for his companions' "exuberance".


	3. Between Mother and Son

**Summary:** It isn't easy to get to close to Severus Snape. It's not impossible; after all, sometimes one simply falls into unusual friendships. The problem is, there is frequently an obstacle in the way. More often than not, that obstacle is Severus Snape.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
**Author notes:** Tremendous thanks to the Harem Ladies, most especially Susan, and to my beta, June.

Chapter 2

When Narcissa turned sixteen, it was Eris Snape who arranged a party for her niece. She considered it an honor to hold it at her house. It also happened to be Severus' ninth birthday, but that did not seem to concern anyone. All of the Snapes' and Narcissa's friends and acquaintances were invited. Severus had no friends to invite, but did not really care. In fact, he thought it was a perfect excuse to remain in the dungeon and stay out of the way of his parents, the Trolls and Narcissa's friends. Unfortunately for a boy with his name, he had a noticeable lisp, and Narcissa would call out in a crowd of her friends, "There's my cousin, Theveruth the Thlimeball!" At nine years old, based strictly on appearance, the nickname was really undeserved. His pale young face was as yet unblemished, and his hair was actually quite nice - thick and black, if a bit unruly. Of course, spending his time in the dark dusty dungeon, exposed to all sorts of fumes, tended to make it limp and lifeless, but it only took a good scrub to bring back its luster.

Severus had remained in his room most of the day, to avoid the hustle and bustle of preparations being made for the party. Mother appeared at his bedroom door. "The party starts in half an hour and you haven't even started to get ready!" she shrieked at him.

"I'd rather not." he responded in a softly defiant voice.

"You will make it your business to look presentable and attempt to make a good impression on our friends - especially the Malfoys!"

_Why? You certainly haven't gone to all this trouble for my benefit_, he thought. He slowly hissed, "No, I will not!" and waited anxiously for her to banish him to the dungeon.

"You're a nasty little boy, who refuses to cooperate!" she spat at him. "And you are not going to hide away this time. Go and wash that filthy hair, right now!"

He glared at her, trying to control his temper, but he felt his face growing hot and his temple pounding. Clenching his fists, he shouted "No!" Then he took a deep breath, reined in his anger and hurt, and whimpered pathetically, "Mother, I am sorry. Please do not send me to the dungeon."

His mother laughed unpleasantly. "You're not fooling me, boy. I know that is what you're hoping I will do." Severus' heart sunk. She asked again, "One last time, are you going to clean yourself up?"

His face contorting with anger, he shouted "NO!" His mother looked at him in a strange, cold way. She pulled her wand from her robe and pointed it at him. For a moment, he wondered if she intended to kill him. Instead, she shouted "Piliungo!" Nothing happened, but his mother smiled at him disagreeably. Yet he still felt no change, no effect at all. What did this mean?

Then she spoke. "If you will not do as you are told, if you want to remain filthy and disgusting, you will have your wish. Enjoy!" And with that, she turned and left him alone, perplexed, filled with uncertainty and foreboding. His mother - his own mother! - had put a curse on him, and he had no idea what it was. For the moment, however, there seemed to be no ill effects, and he made his way down to the comfort and safety of the dungeon. He spent the rest of the day and most of the evening there, preoccupied with his potions and a book he had "borrowed" from his father.

The boy was fascinated with the tales he read about the Dark Arts. The books he read were from his father's secret library, which he had found hidden in the wall of a passageway behind a large and hideous portrait of Demyan the Dybbuk. Upstairs, he could hear talking and music, which he could ignore, but he had less success ignoring the grumbling in his stomach.

Much later that night, when all the guests were gone, Severus crept upstairs. After discovering that his mother had spitefully ordered the house-elf to dispose of all leftover food, he headed to the bathroom. He let in a bath and immersed himself in the steaming water. A few drops of a violet potion sent gentle waves coursing through the liquid, and as he lay there, he practically fell asleep. After some time, he climbed out and wrapped himself in a towel, picked up his wand, and waved himself dry. Then he grabbed a brush and began dragging it through his hair. It met with more than the usual resistance. He tugged at it and a knot of greasy hair came out on the bristles. Puzzled, he looked in the mirror. His hair looked as if it had never been washed. Perhaps he had been too tired to wash it properly. He stuck his head under a shower of hot water. This time, he poured a generous amount of his cousin's flowery shampoo on his head and vigorously rubbed it into his scalp. Once again, he waved his wand and dried his hair. Looking in the mirror, he was horrified to see that it still looked filthy and greasy. What was wrong with him? He paced back and forth anxiously, pulling at his hair distraughtly. His mother's words came to mind. "Pili- pili- Piliungo?" His eyes widened in horror. He knew she was not very fond of him, but still! How could she do this to him? Didn't he have enough to cope with? There was nothing he could do about it at the moment; however, he would confront her in the morning.

The next morning, he came down to breakfast and found his mother and Narcissa cheerfully chatting about the wonderful party. As he sat down, they both fell silent. His mother glared at him. "Well, there you are," she snarled. "You ruined everything, you know. You . . ."

"Why did you do this to me?" he asked softly, his black eyes fixed on her intently.

"You earned it," she replied matter-of-factly.

Narcissa looked at her aunt curiously. "What is he talking about?"

Severus responded. "My dear mother put a curse on me. My hair will not come clean."

Narcissa laughed. "Don't blame your mother because you won't wash your hair."

Severus felt his face grow hot and his temples throbbed. He hissed, "I did wash it! Twice! And look at it!"

His mother said dismissively, "We'd rather not. We are eating."

Narcissa tittered and he stalked out of the room. Then he stopped, came back to the table, scooped up a handful of sausages, and stalked out again. He thought of all the most terrible curses he had read about, and considered which ones he would most like to use on his mother and cousin. If only he dared.

His mother called after him. "Perhaps, if you apologize and ask politely, I might take that into consideration."

He did not respond. There was no way, no chance, no possibility that he was going to beg her for forgiveness. He was so angry he nearly choked on the sausages he was stuffing into his mouth. Dismally, he hoped the curse might wear off eventually, but even if it did not, it was less odious than the thought of apologizing to that woman.


	4. The Effect of Gravity

**Summary:** In which it is demonstrated that witches and wizards are indeed subject to the law of gravity.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 3

It was a magnificent summer morning. As he had done every day since coming home from his third year at Hogwarts, the boy intended to eat breakfast and then head down to the dungeon. After two weeks of summer vacation, he still looked as pale as the dead of winter. He skulked into the dining room, where Fippy the house-elf was already serving his mother and cousin. No one spoke to him except Fippy, who asked what he wished to eat.

After silently wolfing down his meal, he stood up to leave the table. His mother apparently took notice of his presence. She too stood up. She was a tall woman, but at 14, the boy already towered over her. "Where do you think you're going?" she snapped.

"I - I have something I'm working on in the dungeon".

She shook her head. "It is embarrassing to have a son who looks so sickly. Think of others instead of yourself for a change."

"What ARE you talking about?" he inquired acidly.

She explained slowly, as if she were speaking to an idiot. "I know it is hard to imagine, but the Malfoys might look at you, and think there's some chance that Narcissa could pass along such blood. Of course we know that's not the case, but we don't want to take any chance of risking your cousin's future happiness, do we? It seems to me some fresh air and exercise might make you look a bit more - normal." As an afterthought, she added, "Besides, it would be good for you."

Severus stared at her in disbelief. Was she out of her mind? Still, he was not in the mood for an argument. "Very well, when I have finished what I am doing..."

"No, now! Outside!" She shooed him away.

Puckering his face in disgust, he realized she was not going to relent. "Very well; I will be right down." Under his mother's glare, he ran up to his room to grab a book he was reading, "The Role of Dark Arts in Political History." He shoved it in his pocket, came back downstairs and ventured outdoors.

He walked a distance from the house, squinting in the unaccustomed sunlight, and found a dense shade tree. He intended to sit down, but he felt the toe of his boot squelch into the mud. It had rained heavily the night before. He walked around a bit to see if there was a dry spot where he could sit. He found a flat rock on a small raised hillock that did not look too damp. Here was a place where he could spend the rest of the morning.

Letha had been sorry to see her second year at Hogwarts come to an end. At school, she had several good friends and already missed them. Her best friend, Anjana, was away all summer, visiting relatives in India, and Letha's parents were away on "Ministry business" for six weeks. In the meantime, Letha had been left at her grandmother's house. Grandma Ephie was okay, a little eccentric, but she left Letha to do as she wished and did not question her whereabouts.

Where Grandma lived was rather remote, and there were few houses. Letha spent most of her time exploring the adjacent woods and the territory on the other side of the woods, where the mansions and fancy houses were. In the past two2 weeks, Letha had seen several Hogwarts students in that vicinity. Unfortunately, they were all Slytherins, and the worst sort. She had spotted Lucius Malfoy, who had finished his time at Hogwarts during Letha's first year. She was not really familiar with most senior students, but it was scarcely possible not to know Malfoy. He had behaved as if he owned the school, and it was rumored that his father did. When Ministry officials would pay a visit, often they would treat Lucius as if he were royalty, anxiously seeking his approval as if he was somebody _important_. Letha was stymied; to her, he was just some snotty, obnoxious rich kid. Sometimes he was accompanied by two large nasty-looking thugs, whom she recognized as his usual companions from his days at Hogwarts, named Crabbe and Goyle. She wasn't sure which was which. Other times, he was with Narcissa Black. Tall, slender, beautiful and incredibly stuck-up, Narcissa was only a year ahead of Letha, yet she headed a clique of the most popular girls in school, the ones who did their best, and did it quite successfully, to make everyone else feel inferior and unworthy of their much-coveted attention. The only other people she had recognized by name were two disagreeable Slytherin boys, Nott and Bulstrode.

At the moment, Letha was seated on a branch in a large old chestnut tree, imagining she was a Muggle pirate on the mast of her ship. As she looked around her, she saw someone approach the tree, apparently searching for a dry place to sit. He was a very tall and thin boy, dressed in a heavy black robe on this hot summer day, and his head was blanketed in long black greasy hair. Letha recognized him as Severus Snape, a third-year Slytherin. She assumed he was related to Narcissa, though it was hard to believe that he could have any blood in common with the exquisite blond girl. She watched him find a slightly elevated spot he apparently considered satisfactory. He pulled a small book out of his robe and gingerly began to sit himself down.

Suddenly, she heard a noise like charging elephants, approaching from the other side of the tree. Two massive blobs came sailing towards Snape. He fell forward, face first, into a mud puddle, pinned under the bulk of Crabbe and Goyle. The two cretins sat there, braying like jackasses. One of them sat on Snape's back, pinning his arms. The other tugged on a handful of Snape's hair. "Ewww - thlimy!" he guffawed, wiping his hand on the grass. "Hey, Theveruth, I think you need a bath - a mud bath." He then shoved Snape's face into the mud, while snickering at his own cleverness.

Letha had never heard anything particularly nice about Severus Snape. In fact, he had been quite nasty to Anjana on several occasions, but this was just plain unfair. Letha drew out her wand and pointed it at the massive creature on Snape's back. "Oww!" he yelled, grabbing his cheek. He looked down at Snape and shouted, "What did you do that for? Cut that out or you'll be sorry!." Letha shook her head in disbelief. Snape was completely pinned under him; what did this idiot think he could do? She pointed her wand at the other huge boy. He grabbed at his face. "My eyes, oh, my eyes! I'm blind!" She waved her wand back and forth at the two of them until they finally stood up in confusion, grabbing themselves all over, and galumphed away.

Cautiously Snape lifted his head and listened. He began to sit up and looked around, puzzled. He looked up, but apparently did not see Letha in the dense foliage. She could see him, however. With dark forlorn eyes peering out from a pale, thin, mud-spattered face, he looked utterly pitiful. She debated whether she should make her presence known, as she shifted her weight to a lower branch. Abruptly, the issue became moot, as the lower branch cracked and she went sailing down, trying desperately to grab something to cling onto. To her extreme dismay, Severus Snape once again went flying head-first into the mud, arms flailing, as Letha landed squarely on his back.


	5. Defending the Dark Arts

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 4

Letha immediately began to climb off him, apologizing profusely. "I am SO sorry, I really am; I didn't mean to. . . ."

Catching his breath, Snape interrupted her, hissing, "Are you insane? Did you chase them away so you could finish the job and kill me?"

Letha was now standing, and offered him a hand, which he ignored. "Insane? Well," she joked feebly, "you might say I'm out of my tree." Snape glared at her. It would have been quite a menacing glare, if he were not soaked in mud.

"I don't recall having asked for any assistance.".

"Right," Letha nodded. "You were doing so well on your own." She continued hastily. "Honestly, there was nothing you COULD have done. I just can't stand bullies."

"Well, isn't that nice", he sneered. _Wonderful_, he thought. _When Lucius finds out I was 'rescued' by a little girl, I'll never live it down. _He regarded her with disgust. "Go away! You've ruined everything!"

"Have I? What have I ruined?"

"None of your business!" he snapped.

"Oh, I see. You really don't have to be so rude." Imperturbably, she retrieved the book that had gone flying when he was knocked over, and held it out to him. He snatched it from her hand wordlessly and began brushing it off.

"Do you live near here?" she asked.

"Why do you want to know?"

She shrugged. "'Cause I'm nosy?"

He rolled his eyes. "If you must know, that is my family's manor," he told her with some measure of pride, pointing at a rather large, ugly, rundown structure in the distance. Calling it a 'manor' was a bit of a stretch.

"Well then, surely you must know some good hideout in the woods where you could read in peace."

Snape shook his head slowly. "I don't really know. I don't spend much time out of doors."

Looking at him, that much was obvious. "See, I've only been here two weeks and I've found this great spot - well - never mind." She wondered if she should offer to show him the hidden hollow she had found in the woods, but hearing the sound of footsteps approaching, unmistakably loud and graceless, she started running. "Follow me!" she called out behind her. Severus Snape was no fool - he did not need to be asked twice.

She found the narrow opening to her underground hideaway, well covered with vine-choked foliage, and pushed aside the debris to allow them entrance. After she crept in and he'd followed her down, she re-arranged their camouflage. They listened anxiously to the thundering human 'hoofbeats' above them, which eventually died away.

Letha sat down, and Snape followed suit. He took out his wand and waved it over the book to clean it up better. Letha conjured a length of cloth and handed it to him. "You might want to wipe your face,", she ventured. As he cleaned off what he could, she asked him what he was reading. He did not answer. "It has something to do with the Dark Arts, doesn't it? Everyone says you know an awful lot about Dark Magic."

He looked at her suspiciously, eyes glittering. "What is your point?"

She shrugged. "Well, it's just - that's okay with me. It's probably full of interesting stuff. I'm sure it's a LOT more fascinating than Professor Binns' class, say. "

He nodded and showed her the book. "You would be surprised how many famous witches and wizards got where they did with the help of Dark Magic."

She shook her head. "No."

"It's true!" he said earnestly.

"I don't doubt it," she responded. "I meant no, I wouldn't be surprised".

"I see." Another awkward silence followed.

"By the way," she said hesitantly, "I'm Letha Faraday. You're Severus Snape, right?"

"Mm," he grunted.

"I thought you were one of Malfoy's cronies. Aren't those two creeps supposed to be your friends, or something?"

"What of it?" he said irritably. "Unlike you, I do not care to associate with mudbloods, like that ugly girl you're always with at Hogwarts."

Letha yelled at him, "Don't you EVER call my friend a 'Mudblood'!"

Snape grimaced, then regarded the red-faced girl in front of him with amusement. She was rather short and scrawny, with a thick disheveled ponytail of golden-brown hair, but her pale blue eyes had a steely glint to them. "You feel obliged to defend the mistreated, to stand up for the underdog, do you?" he said mockingly.

"I'm serious! I really find the word offensive, and you shouldn't use it."

"I'd hate to offend you," he said smoothly, "but let us examine the facts. Have you learned about Marcolia Sheepshanks, the heroine of the Goblin Uprising?"

"Sure. There's a huge portrait of her in the Ravenclaw common room."

"Well," he continued, "she believed that marrying a mudblood befouled a wizard's bloodline, far worse than marrying a Muggle, in fact. She thought all children of non-wizard parentage who showed signs of magical tendencies should be put to death immediately."

Letha stared at him. "I don't believe THAT. Why would she be admired and considered a hero if she said that?"

"It's true," he said. "She wrote a book about it. My father has one of the few copies that weren't destroyed by the Ministry. He thinks it's brilliant."

She caught and held his black eyes, which were now glittering, whether with spite or excitement about the topic, she was not sure. "And what do you think about that, Severus?"

"I think," he responded slowly, "that she makes some interesting points."

Over the next few weeks, without any intentions of doing so, Severus and Letha often found themselves at the hollow, hotly debating one issue or another, or speculating about the future. They found little to agree on, it seemed, but the arguments were always engrossing.


	6. The Elements of Magic Are All Around Us

**Summary:** In which gnome droppings are by no means the nastiest thing encountered.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

                                                             Chapter 5

With a bit of coaxing, Letha was able to persuade her new and unlikely companion to explore the woods with her. She was quite astounded at how knowledgeable he was about the identity and uses of the plants, insects and other small creatures they encountered in their expeditions. For his part, Severus was fascinated to find living samples of some of the creatures and plants he had in his collection, floating in preservatives in jars, flasks and vials on dusty shelves in the dungeon. It was quite enjoyable, too, to have for company someone who appreciated sharing his interest. She had no qualms about sticking her hands into the recesses of a rotted tree swarming with insects and spiders, or examining bits of owl or gnome droppings.

One day, they were inspecting some odd-looking tiny purple plants growing on the underside of a mossy rock. Severus was explaining, "This is useful in sleeping potions, if you just want to induce a short nap. I have a vial in my collection, but I now I know I can always get some more, right here."

Letha laughed. "I don't need a potion to help me take a nap." It occurred to him that she had a nice, honest laugh. "I don't understand, though," she said, "if you don't collect the potion ingredients yourself, where do you get them?"

"Some of them I buy in Diagon Alley or - "he reflectively lowered his voice "Knockturn Alley. A lot of them I found right in the dungeon; no one else uses them." He added, "Some of the more unusual ones, I get from Lucius."

She looked at him. "Malfoy? Why, does he share your interest in potion-making?" she asked incredulously.

"Somewhat. To the extent that he finds it useful to him."

"How so?" she asked.

No answer was offered. Letha ventured a question. "Why do you hang around with him and his creepy gang?"

"Hang around?"

"Associate with them. At school, you're always part of that group. I certainly don't think it's because you find Crabbe & Goyle so fascinating."

He smiled wanly. "Hardly."

"So", she persisted, "why?"

He turned towards her with an angry scowl. "Why don't you mind your own business? It has nothing to do with you."

Letha shook her head. She had an unhappy thought. "Severus?"

"What?" he asked impatiently.

"Tell me the truth. When we go back to school, are you going to pretend you don't know me?"

Severus was nonplused by the question, but he was very certain about one thing: he did not care for this particular line of inquiry. He had much preferred the conversation when they were talking about plants. He also had the uncomfortable feeling that she was probably right. He responded icily, "I see no reason to wait that long.". Letha wrinkled her forehead and looked at him warily. "That was supposed to be a jest,.", he told her, shrugging his thin shoulders apologetically and smiling rather dismally.

"Well, I'm not amused, Severus. You'll need to work on that," she said, shaking her head. "Now you've hurt my feelings, and I'm going to have to get revenge." She thought a moment and grinned. Then she took out her wand, pointed it above his head and said "Pluriorbis!" Suddenly, hundreds of brightly colored little balls were raining down on him. After he recovered from his initial astonishment, he tried to cover his face as best as he could, but found that the deluge was quite painless. As each colored ball hit him, it made an outlandish noise, while Letha watched him, giggling. As one let out a particularly loud and disgusting belch, Letha started laughing so hard, tears came to her eyes and she could hardly stand up. He started laughing too, and soon they were both sitting on the ground, weak with hilarity.

Finally, Severus gasped, "Where did you learn that trick?"

"My grandmother," she answered. "Grandma Ephie teaches me all the important things."

"I can see that".

He stood up, and reached out a hand to help her up. They stood and brushed themselves off.

Letha considered. "Listen", she told him, "my thirteenth birthday's in two days. Grandma said I should invite my friends over for a party. Well guess what? You're invited."

"Thank you." He bowed graciously. "I accept." Then he paused and reconsidered. "Who else do you expect?"

"No one else. I really don't know anyone else here. Well, I guess there's the Trolls, but I'm not sharing my birthday cake with them. I just think I better warn you."

"About what?"

"Grandma Ephie. She's a real card"

"A card?"

"Believe me, when you meet her, you'll know what I'm talking about. But don't worry; I won't let her totally freak you out." She abruptly gave him a friendly hug. Awkwardly, uncertainly, he put his arms around her, and was relieved that she did not scream or pull away. For a while, they stood holding each other silently and motionlessly. The universe had reached a momentary equilibrium, which neither of them dared to disturb with a movement, a sound, or so much as a stray thought.

"Well, isn't this touching?" A voice drawled. Severus and Letha let go of one another hastily, and turned to face Lucius Malfoy, who stared at them with a mirthless smile. Ignoring the girl, he addressed Snape. "Father asked me to stop by your house this evening to see you." Then he pointed a dismissive finger at Letha. "She will not be with you." It was an order, not a question.

Letha spoke up. "Don't worry; I won't be there, as long as I know you will. But I do have a name, you know."

Malfoy responded without looking at her. "Yes I know. Faraday - parents are low-level Ministry bureaucrats. Family has no money, no pedigree. A strain of insanity. I suggest you stay away from such riffraff, especially Ephemera Faraday." He grinned maliciously at Letha. "Oh excuse me; the loony old bat is the family matriarch, isn't she?"

Letha's face turned red with anger, and her light blue eyes turned stormy gray. She extracted her wand from her robe. Severus grabbed it quickly and pulled it away. He hoped she would realize that it was she he was protecting. It would not bode well to put a curse on Lucius Malfoy.

"Really, Severus, don't you have anything better to do than play with skinny little girls?" Lucius smirked, then added, "I will see you later."

After Malfoy left, Letha was very glum. "See," she complained, "I knew this would happen. You weren't joking before; I'm not part of that crowd."

"That does not matter," he assured her.

She shook her head sadly. "Oh, yes, it does." She paused, preoccupied with her thoughts. "I think I'll go home now. Shall I tell my batty grandmother to expect you, or not?"

He nodded emphatically.

"Well, that's something, I suppose."


	7. The Birthday Party

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 6

Severus spent the evening in the dungeon, trying to decide what he to give Letha for her birthday. Two days was simply not enough time. He studied the bottles and vials on the shelves, and tried to think of what might make a good gift for a girl. He heard the dungeon door open upstairs and footsteps descended the stairs at a leisurely pace. He recognized the feline tread. "Good evening, Lucius."

Lucius Malfoy responded with only a brief flash of his pearly white teeth. Silently, he turned to face the shelves the boy had just been perusing, and his eyes scanned their length, apparently searching for information. "My friend, you must learn to focus on what truly has value."

Severus looked at him guardedly. "To what do you refer?"

Lucius smiled enigmatically. "My father believes you have a remarkable talent; the time has come to put it to good use, instead of simply experimenting for your own amusement."

"I have always provided whatever your father has asked."

"Yes, but you waste a great deal of time that could be used more valuably. I know you have ambition and plans, as I do. Surely, you do not want to - - turn out like Balthazar..."

Severus curled his lip and spat at the mention of his father's name. "I do not think there is much chance of that!" Then he lowered his eyes. "What is it you need?"

"Me? I need nothing from you. Surely you do not think I would ever put conditions on our friendship? However, your assistance is always appreciated, and Father tells me that many exciting things are going on right now. He believes the future is full of remarkable possibilities. A new world is opening up! And, he is certain that you will play a valuable role in helping to bring it about."

"I am at his service."

Placing his right hand on Severus' left forearm, Malfoy beamed at him. "I'm so glad to hear you say that. I knew you would feel that way."

Under no circumstances would he care to divulge how he felt with Lucius' hand on his arm. "How can I be of help?"

"Father needs you to prepare a Veritaserum".

Severus frowned pensively. "Surely he must have other sources . . ."

Yes, but he needs one that will overcome the effects of a mind-clarifying draft."

It did not occur to him to ask _Why? _"I doubt I have the expertise to produce such a powerful potion." He looked at Lucius curiously. "Can't he obtain it through his connections in the Ministry?"

"I imagine it might raise some awkward questions. At any rate, can he count on you?" He raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

"Certainly, I will do my best."

Malfoy gazed at him steadily. "Then you will succeed. I am sure of it. I will check on your progress in a few days. What we have here, Severus is the opportunity to invent our own future, to take our place in history. Do not be distracted by your recent childish preoccupations." The young man brought his handsome face level with his own. "You needn't chase after little girls. If you re looking for pleasures of the flesh," he murmured, flicking his tongue across his upper lip, "that can be arranged." With that, he headed back up the stairs. "I'm afraid I must go; your cousin is waiting for me."

Severus' eyes jealously followed Lucius' form up the stairs. He would have to get to work on Lucius' request right away - as soon as he figured out what to give Letha for her birthday.

Friday afternoon, a tall thin solitary figure dressed in black made his way across the woods. Following Letha's directions, he found himself in unfamiliar territory, at the crest of a small hill. It was quiet and pleasant; the only sounds were the twittering of birds. As he walked, Severus nervously fidgeted with a tiny package in his pocket. A small, irregularly-shaped house painted in multiple hues of blue and green, came into view. From Letha's description, he knew it was her grandmother's house.

Passing through a modest front gate, he entered an overgrown path through a garden containing a haphazard collection of colorful flowers, plants, grasses and herbs. He knocked on the door nervously, and it was opened by a short, round witch with piercing blue eyes. The woman was dressed in a flowing robe decorated with large pastel flowers, and a large floppy hat to match. She reached up, grabbed his shoulders with surprising strength, and pulled his face down to her height. She gave him a kiss on each cheek, and beckoned him into the house. He stepped forward, stupefied. Next, a slim woman of such uncommon height as to tower over him, placed her hands on his shoulders and also gave him a peck on each cheek. Severus was utterly bewildered - were these women mad? He stepped back and debated whether he should make a hasty departure, but the short woman firmly grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the house.

"Ephemera Faraday," she introduced herself pleasantly. "Please call me Ephie, dear."

The other woman pumped his hand. "I'm Mimi," she said in a husky voice. "Pleased to meetcha."

He opened his mouth to respond, but words seemed to elude him. "Mimi is my companion," said Ephie, and it seemed to him that this statement was supposed to be an explanation of some sort. "Oh - please forgive me," he said. "My name is Severus Snape, and ..."

Mimi interrupted him. "What a maw-velous name. Did you make it up yourself?" The woman stared at him with unabashed interest. She had dark brown eyes and an olive complexion, and she wore her dark frizzy hair cropped short. She had a most unusual accent. Severus supposed she was American, though he had never met anyone with a speech pattern quite like hers before.

"Really, Mimi, what a silly question," said Ephie with exasperation. "Make yourself useful. Go and stir the soup - or something."

Mimi retorted, "So what do I look like, the servant?" She beckoned to Severus. "Could you come with me, sweetie? I could use a hand in here."

He failed to suppress an embarrassed smile. No one had ever called him 'sweetie' before. At that moment, Letha ran into the room. She wore a filmy, cream-colored dress, her golden-brown hair bouncing around her shoulders.

She glanced anxiously at his grinning face. "Do I look that ridiculous in this frilly get-up?"

He wanted to tell her how pretty she looked, but was unsure how to go about offering a compliment. "Not at all - you really look . . ." Mimi shouted from the kitchen. "So, are you coming, or what?" He shrugged slightly and went off to help her.

In the kitchen, he was met by a blend of delicious aromas, and his eyes lit up at the sight of an assortment of simmering pots on the stove. Mimi gave him a variety of orders - stir this, chop that - and watched appreciatively as he performed each task with practiced skill.

"You have a real talent there. Do you like to cook?" she asked.

"Not exactly. I do have a hobby of making potions".

"Potions, schmotions.", she said, waving her hands in the air emphatically. "Better you should make a nice chicken soup." Before he could ask her what a "schmotion" was, she handed him a large tureen of soup. "Here, bring this out to the dining room".

Mimi picked up a platter, and led the way out of the kitchen. When they reached the dining room table, he began lowering the steaming pot of soup onto a trivet. Ephie cleared a space for the platter. She smiled at Mimi. "We certainly cook well together."

Mimi smiled back at her. "Ain't it the truth?". Then she leaned forward and gave Ephie an affectionate kiss on the lips. The soup tureen nearly slipped out of Severus' hands, while Letha's face turned slightly pink. Mimi held out a hand to help steady the pot. "That's okay, doll," she assured him. He did not quite know what to make of the two odd women.

The dinner conversation was quite interesting. Ephie told him about her husband, Letha's grandfather; he had died quite young, when he and some other former school chums had attempted an impromptu round of Quidditch, and 'the damn fool' got hit in the head with a Bludger. After that, she had moved to Greenwich Village in New York with her baby son. "A witch can be herself in Greenwich Village. The less you dress and act like a normal Muggle, he better you fit in. Probably half the Muggles there call themselves witches. "And," she added, "the best part was, that was where I met Mimi".

Severus raised his eyebrows and stared at Mimi, "Does that mean you are a mud - a Muggle-born?"

Letha coughed loudly and seemed to be in some distress every time Mimi tried to answer the question. Eventually, Mimi said, "Actually, I'm what you people call a Muggle. That's okay with you, isn't it, _tateleh_?" The three women looked at Severus questioningly, and he turned red. He nodded in agreement, although he was not really sure what to think.

Dinner consisted of a series of unfamiliar but tasty courses. If he showed any hesitancy to try a new food, the ladies pleaded, coaxed, cajoled and insisted that he try it. They were very persuasive, primarily because it was all delectable. The discussion moved around to a variety of interesting topics, including Muggle events he knew nothing about, art, music and politics. The children were encouraged to express and defend their opinions, and disagreement was encouraged rather than punished. Despite his initial discomfort with the women's open affection for one another, he soon felt quite at ease, more so, certainly, than he ever did in his own house.

After dinner, they all went into the living room, which was rather large and airy. There were several comfortable well-worn chairs and couches strewn about, but the most prominent features were the large canvases on the wall. There were portraits of individual people, paintings of groups of people, of animals, of flowers, of landscapes, and a number of paintings which looked like nothing at all in particular. Ephie noticed Severus staring at one painting with a perplexed expression. "Have you any idea what you are looking at?"

"Not at all. I don't mean to offend you, but it looks like splotches of paint to me. Is that supposed to look like something?"

Ephie smiled. "No, it is not. It is called abstract art, and it is not meant to represent anything; it is what it is, and no, you are not required to like it. You really can't offend me. Besides, it is not one of my works; it was painted by my friend Jackson."

"I see." He really did not see the point in looking at splotches of paint, but he did not know what else to say about it.

"Is there anything else you want to ask me?"

"Some of these paintings have a scent. Some have - sounds or music. But almost none of them move."

Ephie looked immensely pleased at his observations. "A number of them do not move because they were painted by Mimi, or by other non-wizards. Though I think they have a magic of their own, don't you? For my own work, I began painting seriously when I lived in Greenwich Village. I became accustomed to painting stationary objects, and in fact prefer to do so. I want to express my own point of view, not that of my subject. That is why I give some of my paintings the scents and sounds that seem fitting to me; that is my choice"

Severus nodded thoughtfully, while he pondered her answer.

"Would you like to see our gallery?"

"Certainly", he answered.

Letha looked at her grandmother in alarm. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I don't see why not." "Come along", she said to them. Letha shook her head. "I think I'll wait here, Grandma, if that's okay."

"Suit yourself." Ephie led the boy up a stairwell. She opened the door and lit the sconces with her wand. They stepped inside a long, narrow hall, covered with canvases along its length. Severus walked down the hall, rapidly past the "abstract" pictures, which did not much interest him, and more carefully examined the paintings of landscapes and objects and, especially, of people. There were a series of paintings of strangely-clad people in cluttered rooms, talking, smoking, drinking and laughing. From some of these effused a mixture of sounds and aromas - there were the murmurs of voices, strains of sad-sounding music with no real rhythm he could discern, the smell of smoke, alcohol and a vaguely familiar sweetish-acrid scent. On the walls there were also pictures of a young round-faced boy whom he supposed to be Letha's father, and others of a little girl, whom he recognized as Letha.

He continued down the hall and found himself facing paintings of individuals and groups of men and women in various states of undress, many altogether nude. Among them were pictures of a diminutive young woman with features reminiscent of Letha's, and others were paintings of Mimi. Severus felt rather uncomfortable with the nude paintings, but one particularly made him stop and stare. It depicted a tall thin man with a familiar long, thin crooked nose, standing behind, and embracing, a young Ephemera Faraday. The man had a long black beard, flecked with strands of white, which flowed sensuously around the woman's body. Severus' lips drew together in a tight frown.

"Perhaps we'd better go back downstairs," Ephie suggested gently.

"Perhaps that would be a good idea."

She led him back to the door and down to the living room. Letha peered at him anxiously. "What did you think of the Gallery?"

Severus kept his expression neutral. "It was certainly interesting." When she kept staring at him, he added, "I rather liked it."

"You know, Letha's a very good artist too. She gets it from Ephie, y'know."

Letha reddened. "No, I'm not, Mimi." She smiled at her friend. "When I paint people, they have the oddest shapes!"

"That's because you don't practice," her grandmother chided her. "You have the soul for it; you just don't work on it."

"Perhaps she is occupied with other matters of importance," Severus suggested quietly. Letha turned away so he could not see the exhilaration on her face when he came to her defense.

"That's no excuse for wasting one's talents," Ephie responded gruffly, but she seemed not altogether displeased at the boy's answer. It did not escape Severus, however, that her criticism echoed Lucius', and the reminder of it irritated him slightly. However, that was forgotten as the topic of conversation quickly drifted in other directions.

When the hour began to grow late, Severus became concerned that he had better get home. Not that anyone was likely to ask him where he had been, but he did not want there to be any possibility that he would have to explain his whereabouts.

"If you have to leave soon, I think we should bring out the birthday cake right away," Ephie said.

Mimi carried out a magnificent confection, decorated with spun-sugar flowers and fairies. She told Letha to make a wish and blow out the candles. Then, Mimi and Ephie presented her with a wonderful collection of books, which included "The Little Prince", "Through the Looking-Glass", "The Wind in the Willows", and most impressively, a beautifully illustrated "Field Guide to Dragons of the Far East".

Severus pulled a small package out of his pocket and handed it to Letha. She smiled at him shyly and unwrapped the paper. Inside was a tiny, delicately faceted vial holding an iridescent liquid.

"It's so pretty! What is it?"

He pulled a sheet of parchment from another pocket. "Open it."

She pulled out the tiny stopper, and with a shimmer, the liquid flew onto the parchment, forming words. It said:

Letha,

For the first time in my life, I do not feel alone in the universe. Thank you.

I wish you happiness equal to all you deserve.

Your friend always,

Severus Snape

He took the vial from her hand, tapped it with his wand and said "Return!" The words flew off the page and back into the vial. When it was full, he capped it and handed it back to her. Letha was entranced.

Mimi was also entranced. "Isn't that something! How beautiful! See Ephie, I told you this boy was a _mensch_. I don't know what you were . . . "

Ephie interrupted her. "That is very lovely, young man. Words like that mean a great deal." Her eyes, steel-blue like Letha's, but sharpened with age and experience, seemed to plumb the depths of his soul, and he felt a bit uneasy at what she might find there.

He paused uncertainly. "There is something else," he said. He reached into his pocket again and took out another small item, which he held in his hand. "Several years ago, my mother's great-aunt came to visit our house. For some reason, she seemed to develop a certain fondness for me, although she had little use for the rest of my family. She told me she had been a friend of the great alchemist, Nicholas Flamel. He said he had learned the secret of transforming mercury into gold, and gave her a small piece of it. He told her that wearing it around her neck would protect her from physical harm. I do not know if any of that is true, but she lived to be 248 years old." In fact, she had died shortly after giving him the gift, a detail he saw no reason to relate. With that, he opened his hand, and showed her a tiny gold orb dangling from a fine gold chain. "I want you to have this."

He put it around her throat and she lifted her hair so that he could close the clasp at the nape of her neck. Letha turned around and smiled at him, tears in her eyes. "Oh thank you so much, Severus; but are you sure about this? It was your great-aunt, after all." She gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Of course I want you to have it. But now I am afraid I'd better get home. I've really enjoyed the evening." He thanked Mimi and Ephie, and then he came to Letha.

He bent towards her. _What if he kisses me on the lips?_ she worried anxiously and closed her eyes expectantly. Instead he took her hand in his and gave her a chaste peck on the cheek. After that, he headed home. Letha was a bit disappointed, but overall, went off to bed that night feeling extremely happy.


	8. Questions, Queries and Requests

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 7

By the time Severus arrived home, the house was dark and quiet. When he softly rapped at the door, the house-elf came to let him in. "Master Severus," she squealed, "you looks happy!"

"I am." He flashed a smile at the house-elf, which broadened as he regarded her utter astonishment.

"Then, I is happy too, sir." She lowered her voice. "But sir, bestest not to look too happy."

He frowned at her, puzzled. "Why not?"

"Master Lucius is here to see you, and he be's mad for waiting so long. He will be to wondering why you looks so cheerful, sir."

"Good point." It was an event worth noting, when the expression on the face of young Snape could be described as 'cheerful.' He stood up a bit straighter, wiped the smile off his face and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Walking into the parlor, he was equally careful to keep any signs of unease out of his face, while he wondered what had brought Lucius over at this hour.

"Late evening, Severus?" asked Malfoy in a soft drawl. Severus turned around. "Your little friend again? She's a bit - immature - but some are partial to the taste of spring's greenest fruit."

"No, no," he cut in with alarm, his poise instantly shattered. "That is not - I never - that is . . ."

Lucius smiled at him curiously. "Far be it from me to judge you." He stepped closer. "Tell me, then," he said in a conspiratorial tone, "how _do_ you spend your time with that girl?"

Severus shifted uncomfortably. He had no desire to explain to Malfoy about his friendship with Letha. It was unfortunate that Lucius had run into the two of them together, but, no doubt, he'd have already known. Lucius' appearance at such an inopportune moment had not been a coincidence; of this he was certain. Now here he was demanding details. As much as he might like to do so, it never would have occurred to Severus to tell Lucius Malfoy to bugger off. "I suppose we - mostly - we talk," he answered awkwardly.

"You talk?" Lucius lifted his hand and placed it on the back of Severus' neck. He ran his tapered fingers softly down the younger boy's neck and shoulders. Severus swallowed hard as the fingers crept across to the front of his throat. "What on earth could the two of you have to talk about?"

Severus wracked his mind for a satisfactory answer, but words seemed to elude him. Lucius seemed terribly amused, and brought his face very close to his. Severus faced a pair of hooded, languorous eyes. "Does she ever talk about her parents?"

"N-no, I do not recall..."

"A young girl, and she never talks about her family?" A finger traced a slow outline over Severus' lips.

"Only her grandmother." He took a deep breath, adding "I've been to her grandmother's house." _Damn!_ he thought. _Damn! Why did you tell him?_

"Really?" Lucius' eyebrows rose slightly. "Why on earth...? No, don't tell me. That must have been an unusual experience, I would think."

It was always difficult to maintain his composure around Lucius Malfoy. "It was. Very unusual."

Lucius smiled his lips near Severus'. "Anything you think I should know about?"

Severus closed his eyes and caught his breath. He thought about the delicious food. _Lucius doesn't want to hear about food._ He thought about the paintings. _Lucius doesn't want to hear about paintings._ He thought about the Muggle woman with the strange way of speaking. Funny about that one. Very unusual. The fingers on his face had a hypnotic effect on him. "She lives with another woman. I think they are lovers," he blurted out.

"How bizarre!"

"And," Severus wet his lips, which felt cold and dry. "The other woman is a Muggle."

Lucius took his hand away and stepped back, smiling oddly. The spell broken, clarity of thought returned. Severus felt ill. The last thing he wanted to do was to cause trouble for Letha or her family.

". . . Prepared the potion?"

Severus looked up and realized Lucius had been asking him a question. "Excuse me?"

Lucius regarded him curiously. "Unusual behavior seems to be prevalent tonight. I've never known you to be absent-minded."

The subject of Malfoy's query became apparent to him. "I am not certain I can produce an effective Veritaserum that will overcome the effects of a good mind-clarifying draft."

"Perhaps it might have helped if you had actually been working on it."

He met Lucius' eyes, and this time, his own black eyes carefully revealed nothing. "I have been doing that, Lucius."

Lucius frowned at him. "Really? The only cauldron I found sitting in your charming workroom had some sort of colorful residue in it; it certainly looks nothing like what I asked you for. What _were_ you so busy with?"

He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. "It was nothing really - just," he thought quickly, "something slippery to toss in the path of your comrades Crabbe and Goyle, next time they stop by to make my life a living hell."

Malfoy shrugged. "I didn't know they were bothering you."

_No, of course you didn't_, Severus thought. _It comes as a real shock to you, doesn't it?_

"Why didn't you simply ask me to talk to them? You know I'm always here to help. Really, if you need anything, please let me know. Father does have such a high opinion of you; I know you would hate to disappoint him."

Severus nodded glumly, and Lucius silently took his leave. He would have preferred engaging in physical combat with the Trolls to wrestling with his own feelings about Lucius Malfoy. Again and again, he found himself losing his sense of self in Lucius' presence. He was not sure if what he felt uppermost was hatred or love, admiration or fear, or some grotesque combination. In some ways, it seemed that his feelings, whatever they might be, really had nothing to do with it at all. He did know that he had better do as Lucius had asked. He also knew that he had probably made a serious blunder by talking about Letha and her grandmother. Why had she befriended him? Why had she invited him into her grandmother's home? She knew perfectly well what sort of person he was, who his friends were. Why had she trusted him? It was her fault, really; didn't she know that one's private family matters should be kept private? Why did things have to be so complicated?


	9. Gray Days, and Getting Grayer

**Summary:** Why it isn't easy to get to close to Severus Snape.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 8

The next day was dull, gray and very wet, a perfect day to spend holed up in the dungeon with a new potion brewing in the cauldron. Anyway, Severus supposed, Letha would be spending the day indoors as well. He had decided he would make another foray into his father's study, to retrieve the Sheepshanks book he had told her about. He headed over to the secret passageway and began crawling towards the study. Gingerly, he touched the door, and it opened a crack.

There was a light on, and he saw a woman standing in the middle of the room. He had never seen a woman with such a voluptuous figure, nor one so scantily dressed. The woman's full round breasts were barely concealed with a gauzy material that hid very little, and below her smooth white belly, a tiny piece of cloth provided the most minimal coverage, so that the observer had a clear unobstructed view of her long shapely legs. He was grateful that he wore long, loose robes; he would have been mortified if anyone were to see the effect she was having on him. He turned to go, but the woman beckoned him in with a wave of her hand. Then he heard his father's voice. "Come in, Severus," he commanded.

The boy walked into the room hesitantly. His father was standing in front of the woman, with his robe off, clad only in a long open shirt. The boy's uneasiness grew, but the woman stepped right in front of him. "Do you like what you see?" she asked. He nodded uncomfortably. His breathing was fast and shallow. His nostrils quivered and he felt a bit dizzy. She leaned towards him and jiggled slightly, then turned towards Balthazar, who smirked and nodded at her. Turning her attention back to the son, she smiled at him. "Go on," she urged him. "I won't bite you."

Severus simply stood motionless, in mute embarrassment. Impatiently, his father grabbed his wrist with his large hand, and placed it directly on the woman's breast. He brushed his fingers across the smooth, enticing mound, tentatively running a fingertip across the hard nipple. His father reached out and grasped the other breast in his own hand, lowering his mouth to it. With a rush of overwhelming desire and revulsion at the same time, Severus ejaculated and threw up at the same time. The woman shrieked and jumped back as vomit trickled down her chest and his father's face. The back of a meaty hand slammed into his nose, and his father screamed at him in a rage. "Get out of here, you idiot!"

In wide-eyed horror, Severus went flying out of the study, and ran to the refuge of the dungeon. He stood in the dark, burning cheek against the cold, damp wall, feeling waves of self-disgust and humiliation course through him. He remained all that night in the dungeon, not even coming up for food. He slept there, best as he could, curled up in a dark corner. He spent another two days there as well, barely moving from the corner.

Two days of unrelenting misery passed, and he had not dared to show his face. Two days, and no one had even bothered to check if he was all right. Not that he really cared, he told himself, but in truth, he would not have been terribly put out if someone had just given a holler, "Are you alive, down there?"

On the third day, he finally heard a timid knock on the dungeon door. "Master Severus, there be's a young lady to see you, what says she's your friend." The hesitant manner in which Fippy uttered the word _friend_ made it clear that she considered the possibility questionable at best.

For the first time in days, Severus felt a bit less miserable. Letha must be wondering what had happened to him. Maybe she missed him. Perhaps she was even worried about him? Then he heard Narcissa's voice. "There's a girl here to see you, thtupid. You'd better come up here, before she comes to her senses!"

He was even willing to ignore his cousin's nastiness. _Fancy that_, he thought, _she wants to see me!_ He proceeded to rise from his dark corner, and then slid down again. No. He wasn't going to move. What he'd done was shameful, and he wasn't fit to be in her presence. But then again, he didn't want to hurt her feelings. Hesitantly, he decided he would have to face her.

Severus slowly stood up again, stretching his stiff legs. He took off his filthy robe and shook it out, coughing at the cloud of dust that it sent up. He tossed the robe back on and began to ascend the stairs. Half way up, he heard his father's voice and froze. "Please come in, young lady. I had no idea my son had such a lovely friend."

Severus' heart sunk. He stood where he was and listened. "Come into the sitting room with me, my dear. Narcissa, could you please bring our guest a cold drink?"

Narcissa whined, "But Uncle...."

"Now, Narcissa, let's be polite," Balthazar said, with a hint of sharpness in his voice. Severus heard his cousin go stomping off, and resumed climbing the stairs. He peeked into the room. His father was openly ogling the girl, and Letha stood against the wall, with her arms wrapped around her chest. For a moment, he pictured himself coming to her rescue, sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her out of the lecherous reach of his father. His shoulders sank. After three days without eating, he could barely carry himself, and he dared not use magic against his father. No doubt, the miserable bastard would report him for underage use of magic, and he could be expelled from Hogwarts, or as he thought of it, 'Warts-and-all'. As in - warts and all, it was still better than being home. There was only one other solution he could think of. It was a terrible solution, but it was the only one he had at that moment. He fixed his features in the most icy, forbidding glower he could muster. When he walked into the room, Severus stared at Letha with cold, expressionless eyes and a sneer on his lips. "I don't recall inviting you," he hissed at her.

Letha stared at him in stupefaction, and Balthazar turned to face his son with an ugly expression. "What kind of manners do you have? Your friend was telling me she was worried that you were ill. She was _concerned_ about you. If you don't care to see her, _you_ can leave. We are having a charming conversation." He turned his attention back to Letha, a forced smile on his lips.

It seemed to Severus that he leered at Letha with the same rapacious expression he had fixed on the woman in his study. He could not bear that this despicable man should look at her that way, should think of her that way. He momentarily closed his eyes, imagining himself pointing his wand at his father, shouting "_Avada__ Kedavara!"_ In his mind, he saw the man lying lifeless on the ground. He knew what he had to do. He opened his eyes again and fixed them coldly on Letha. "I do not think so. It is this - this Mudblood-lover who should leave. I suggest you get out of this house and do not return." Then he snarled, "In the future, you will stay away from me, will you not?"

Letha stared at him with her mouth agape. Her eyes blinked away the tears that she could not restrain. He could not bear to see her looking at him with such an expression of betrayal, and focused all his thoughts on Balthazar. It was so much easier to hate, and all the hatred of his young lifetime came pouring through the floodgates of his mind. "_Crucio__!"_ he thought. "_Crucio__!_ _May you suffer pain so unbearable that you would beg for death. And may death be slow and agonizing, and bring you no release!_" He turned towards Letha, and she gasped at his unmistakable expression of utter loathing. Severus strove to maintain a delicate balance, banishing all trace of expression from his eyes as he resumed an icy glare at the girl.

Letha averted her eyes from his and looked at Balthazar. In a thick, stilted voice, she thanked him for his hospitality. "Perhaps I ought to leave now," she managed to say. The man offered her a broad, frozen smile, while his eyes darted towards his son menacingly. "I must apologize for my son's inexcusable behavior. It has been a pleasure; I hope you will stop by again."

"Thank you, Sir. I will," she said unconvincingly. The house-elf came in to escort her to the door. As soon as they left the room, Balthazar reached out his arm to grab his son, but the boy sprinted off, his robe sprinkling dust and cobwebs as he ran. He flew down the stairs, sat back down in the corner, and buried his face in his arms, feeling utterly miserable.


	10. The End of Summer

**Summary:** Is it merely the sultry heat of August that so confounds one's perception?  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 9

On a sticky stifling August afternoon, the underground hollow was a perfect place to stay cool and be lazy. Letha lay on a blanket, attempting to read "Through the Looking Glass" for the third time. That morning she had received an owl post from her parents; they would be coming to pick her up in less than a week. She couldn't wait. Ever since Severus had thrown her out of his house, the summer had been extremely miserable and depressing, despite Grandma and Mimi doing their best to cheer her up.

Heat and boredom made her drowsy. She lay stretched out on her side, head resting on one hand. As she stared at the book, she was startled by the sound of someone entering her sanctuary. Her pulse quickened as she looked up expectantly. Her jaw tightened at the sight of a tall, slender young man standing above her, observing her languidly, as if she were an unusual insect.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped at Lucius Malfoy.

"Forgive me," he responded with exaggerated contrition. "I was unaware that this was your exclusive enclave."

She rolled her eyes and stood up to face him. "Well it is, okay? And I didn't invite you, did I? What are you doing here, anyway?" she snarled, standing up to face him.

"I thought I might find Severus here."

She snorted. "I doubt that. You're the one who poisoned him against me, didn't you? Ordered him to stay away from the likes of _me_, no doubt."

He regarded her with an exaggerated expression of surprise, and flashed a Cheshire-cat smile. "I am mortified to here you say that. I never told him any such thing. The fact is, I don't believe in telling _anyone _what to do. I may offer an opinion, or make a suggestion, but everyone must make their own choices."

"Then you 'suggested' ...."

"I suggested nothing. Perhaps..." he paused and frowned reflectively. "He decided that he was tired of playing with little girls." As he spoke he regarded her appraisingly.

"Maybe", she replied nonchalantly, but then blushed. "So what are you looking at? She held out her arms defiantly. Nothing to see here."

Malfoy took a step towards her. "On the contrary." He insinuated himself closer to her than he rightfully should have, and lifted his arm towards her. "Here," he said, lazily running his hand across her chest, "I see the beginning of womanhood." He brazenly let his hand linger upon her breast, and Letha shoved him away angrily. "Don't you dare touch me!"

He nodded and removed his hand slowly, smiling at her with half-closed eyes. "You see? I do as you ask." He fixed her in his hypnotic gaze; she felt liker a moth struggling to free herself from the collector's pin.

"Get out of here!"

He ignored her. "Severus is not very knowledgeable about these things. _I_ know you are not just a little girl. I felt the way your body responded to my touch," he murmured.

"It did not!"

He moved closer to her and put his hand on her knee, sliding it up under her robe, between her legs.

"Don't do that!" she gasped, and tried to pull his hand away. He brought his face close to hers. "Very well, then I won't." He began sliding his hand back down. To her horror, she found herself clamping her legs together, so that his hand remained caught between her thighs.

He brought his lips to her ear and whispered softly, "Whatever you desire." The tip of his tongue lightly flicked across her earlobe, and she shuddered. His tongue slid under her ear and flickered down her neck. Then he took her fingers in his and brought them to his mouth, grasping each of them, one after the other, with his lips and tongue.

She wanted him to let go of her.

She wanted him to stop.

She wanted him to leave.

Yet, not one word came out of her mouth.

What happened after that was not too clear in her mind. As if watching herself in a dream, she was vaguely aware of lying on the warm musty ground, her body entwined with his.

If this is what he wanted, that was fine with her.

As long as he was with her, that was fine with her.

As long as he loved her, that was fine with her.

She whispered his name. "Severus." There was no response. "Severus?"

"Open your eyes and look at me," he told her.

She opened her eyes slowly and faced a pair of cold gray eyes gazing back at her in amusement. "Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" she panted, pushing him off of her. Her face burned with shame. "GET OUT OF HERE!" she shouted at him, too late, punching and kicking at him wildly.

He stood up and smiled at her. "Are you sure? You seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"Leave now!" She reached over for her wand.

"As you wish. And I will be sure to tell Severus you were thinking of him," he added maliciously, smiling a Cheshire-cat smile.

After he deftly slid out of the entrance hole, Letha sat for a while feeling completely numb and shaken. She had allowed- no, encouraged - that - that creature... Malfoy was right; he had done nothing against her will. She shuddered. Was he really going to tell Severus? And why should she care anyway, after the way he'd treated her?

She could not, she absolutely could _never_ bear to look either of them in the face again; not Severus Snape, not Lucius Malfoy. Never! It was too awful to contemplate. Maybe they'd even planned it out together? After all, Snape had made it clear how he really felt about her. Maybe he'd put Malfoy up to this? Maybe he'd think it was all very amusing indeed? She would rather die than see his face again.

She never wanted to see her own face again, either. How could she even look in a mirror after this?

Perhaps she would ask her parents if she could transfer to Beauxbatons.

This had turned into the worst summer of her life. She had discovered that friendship was meaningless; Severus had turned out to be a complete liar and a horrible person. Not that she was any better; was she? How could she have allowed Malfoy to do this? She hated Snape. She hated Malfoy. Most of all, she hated herself. Her fingers ached - she had been angrily digging them into the ground. She looked down and saw that she had been tracing 'S'-shaped figures with her fingernails, which were caked in dirt.

Overwhelmed with anguish, rage and self-disgust, she stood up and began kicking the marks she had made, rubbing them out with the toes of her shoes, stomping them out with her heels, throwing rocks and sticks and dirt, screaming and cursing. Bitter tears stung her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

-------------------------

Letha's parents rejected her pleas to transfer schools. She might, possibly, have garnered more support if she had explained the reason for her sudden desire to attend Beauxbatons, but she kept that information to herself. Reluctantly she returned to Hogwarts for her third year, and managed to settle into something of a routine. Not surprisingly, she avoided Severus Snape at all costs.

Not far into the school term, an article was published in the _Daily Prophet_. It drew a few snide comments from some of the Slytherin students. Severus Snape, however, did not offer his opinion on the matter, though he certainly had one.

_Senile Witch Dies in Unfortunate Accident_

By Rita Skeeter

Oct. 13, Wiltshire:

An elderly witch living on the outskirts of this town set herself ablaze in her own house yesterday. By the time fire vanishers arrived, the house was burnt completely to the ground. Charred remains of Ephemera Faraday, and another woman who remains unidentified, were found in the rubble. Mrs. Faraday's neighbors describe her as senile, bizarre and "completely off her rocker." According to Ministry of Magic sources, the fire apparently was caused by Mrs. Faraday's slovenly habits; her stovepipe was poorly maintained, and, due to her senility, she allowed a cooking pot to catch fire.

Darius Malfoy, community leader and renowned philanthropist, has expressed his regret at the unfortunate occurrence. "I have told the Ministry again and again that there is a disreputable element of peculiar and unbalanced indigents who have been moving into the environs of our community. Respectable wizards are outraged that their safety is placed at risk by these unfortunates. Most regrettably, this witch has not only caused her own death, but that of another individual."

Coming especially under fire is the woman's own son, Walter Faraday, who is employed by the Ministry. He has had to answer questions as to why he allowed his feeble-minded mother to live on her own and place herself and others at risk. Clearly unwilling to admit his own negligence in failing to provide his mother with proper supervision, he has been temporarily suspended from his employment, and faces a hearing to determine whether he will be reinstated.


	11. Sometimes It's Almost Worth It

**Summary:** Sometimes you feel like all your hard work is for naught. But then, sometimes, something comes up that makes it all seem worthwhile.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 10

As the young woman marched deliberately down the hall with a scowl on her face, anyone who stood in her way quickly moved aside. She rapped abruptly on a large ornate wooden door, and threw it open without waiting for a welcome. A short balding man, impeccably dressed, sat at the desk of an immaculate office, staring at her in astonishment.

She spoke a bit too loudly, clearly trying to control her temper. "Sir, I do not understand the meaning of this!" She held out a small parchment, which she held clenched in her fist.

The man stood up. "Miss Forrester, this is highly irregular! You must go through proper channels."

She cut him off. "Mr. - CRUTCH!" she hissed. "This memo comes from YOU! So, I need _your_ explanation!"

He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. However, he could not ignore the look of intense indignation in the girl's steely blue eyes, and after all, she was his hardest worker. "What is it, Forrester? As you know, I'm very busy right now."

"Well, Mr. Crotch... "

"Crouch."

"I'll try to remember that," she responded earnestly, and continued. "Your memo says that Lucius Malfoy has been cleared of all charges and all records of his investigation are to be expunged."

"That is correct, Forrester."

"Faraday. FARADAY!"

"What's that?"

She sighed. "I've spent the past six months working day and night to put together the evidence against Malfoy. My office is overflowing with piles of parchment, deposition transcripts, witness statements . . . and there's not even going to be an arrest?"

"Perhaps you should discuss this matter with your immediate superior."

In exasperation she shouted, "But the memo came from YOU!!!"

He looked at her sternly. "Really, Forrester, there's no reason for such hostility. Perhaps you need a holiday."

"I don't need a holiday - I need an explanation!"

He regarded her in an officious manner. "We've reviewed the evidence, and considered Mr. Malfoy's exemplary record, and the Ministry has concluded that further action is not justified."

Letha stared at him angrily. "No further action is justified? What do you need, a signed confession?"

"Young lady, I don't doubt that you've put in long hours on this matter, as we all have. Believe me, your work is appreciated. However, you are a mere neophyte, and others are more experienced than you." She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a warning finger. "Now I have some new matters for you to work on." He reached into a cabinet behind him, thumbed through a neat stack of files, and handed two of them to her. "I assure you, Forrester, we are all extremely eager to make appropriate charges. I am sure these assignments will prove far more satisfactory to someone as enthusiastic as you." He sat back down and looked at his desk. "Good day." She had been summarily dismissed.

Letha realized she was not going to accomplish anything with Crouch. 'Exemplary record', indeed! Clutching the two new files, she headed back to her office. As she walked, she glanced at the top file. When she read the name on it, she nearly walked into a wall. She popped into the office next to hers. The door was open, and she stood in the doorway. "Good morning, George," she said with forced cheerfulness.

George Bailey glanced up from his work and looked at her appreciatively. Silhouetted in the doorframe was a harried-looking young woman, quite attractive though garbed in a rather shapeless mud-colored robe. She wore her golden-brown hair bunched in its usual ponytail, and apparently had neither the time nor inclination to bother making herself up. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" George asked.

"I'd like to ask you a little favor."

"Certainly, anything," he said.

"I need any information you have on someone named Severus Snape."

He walked over to her. "Why?" he teased. "Is he a rival for my affection?"

She responded impatiently. "Hardly. It's my latest assignment."

"I'll see if I have anything," he said. He added, "If you'll go out with me Saturday night."

"I'm afraid," she said regretfully, "that I'll be spending Saturday night with my pal Severus, here."

George shook his head. "Is there ever a time when you're NOT busy? Can't you take a little free time? We could have a little fun."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure I'll be having loads of fun with this jerk," she snapped. And it was true - getting Severus Snape shut up for life in Azkaban would make up - or almost make up - for Lucius Malfoy slipping away. She looked at the name on the other file. "Oh - and George? I also need whatever you have on this other loser - Sirius Black."

George stared at her. "You've got that case? Well, that's a non-starter."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Don't you read the Daily Prophet?

"I avoid filthying my hands with that rag most of the time. And I've been busy with the Malfoy assignment, for all that accomplished."

"Sirius Black is the loony who helped You-Know-Who kill his friends the Potters and then massacred a dozen Muggles while he knocked off one of his other school chums." He looked at her with concern. "You be careful around that one. He's really bad."

"They're all really bad. It's our job to get them locked away, and that's just what I intend to do with these two." Then she sighed. "If anyone will listen to me. See you later." She left George's office and returned to her own, shoving aside a pile of parchment so she could get to her desk. She was feeling more cheerful; Snape was going to wish he'd never been born.


	12. Catching Up With Old Acquaintances

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 11

Letha dreaded her visits to Azkaban. As much as she despised the Death Eaters, she could not help feeling that there were few beings, if any, who deserved to be subjected to such horrible conditions, and particularly, to the dementors. Although, she thought, Lucius Malfoy would have deserved the misery of Azkaban if he had ever had to spend any time there. The Lestranges belonged there, perhaps a few others. In that small number who deserved to be prisoners of Azkaban, she suspected she would include the two prisoners she had come to see that day.

Upon entering the gates of the prison, one was immediately overwhelmed by a sense of utter bleakness and hopelessness. She reached into her bag and pulled out a large hunk of chocolate, which she had packed along with her files and documents. An unfortunate reaction on her first foray to the prison had taught her of the importance of being prepared. She broke off a piece of the chocolate and shoved it into her mouth. She showed the guard her identification, and then was led down a long corridor to one of a series of massive gates, adorn. Each gate separated one area from the next by virtue of its massive size, locks and a variety of spells. Finally, she was led by two guards into a small squalid room. A wooden table stood in the center of the room, with a chair at either end. There was no other furniture or ornamentation in the room.

One of the guards, a sullen, disagreeable man named Glorf, left them there and returned a few minutes later. "The prisoner will be right in directly," he announced. She prepared herself; she knew he would be accompanied by an inevitable dementor at his side, and could feel the misery and despair that seemed to fill the room like a dark cloud as it approached. She reached into her bag and quickly shoved another small chunk of chocolate into her mouth. At that moment, a door opened on the prisoner side of the bars, and an immense, silent hooded figure came gliding in. Instinctively, she closed her eyes to block out the sight, but she could not block out the desolate chill that emanated from it.

When she opened her eyes again, the prisoner was seated across from her, the dementor by his side. A haggard figure slumped across from her. His greenish-gray skin was stretched across an emaciated visage that appeared to have once been quite handsome, and which was framed in filthy disheveled hair. She could not say she felt any sympathy for him; the man's barbarous behavior was well-documented. He had betrayed _his_ dearest friends, resulting in their deaths at the hand of Voldemort. When another close friend confronted him, he had killed him mercilessly, massacring a dozen innocent Muggles at the same time. Letha shook her head. So much for the value of friendship.

"Sirius Black! My name is Letha Faraday," she said. "I represent Bartholomew Crouch, Ministry of Magic, Criminal Prosecution Division. You are accused of participating in criminal acts against society, as a Death Eater, and individually. I am here to offer you an opportunity to present information that may provide evidence of duress, coercion or other mitigating factors. You also may..." As she recited the standard preliminaries, his eyes met hers with surprising focus and clarity for an Azkaban prisoner. After she finished her little speech, she began with the prescribed initial questions:

"Are you now, or have you ever been, a Death Eater!"

"NO!" he responded, clearly and emphatically.

"Have you ever participated in any activities in support of the Death Eaters, in support of - their leader?"

"No. I have not. But I don't expect you to believe me; all the evidence shows that I did what I am accused of." He looked at her steadily, directly. "I am not a Death Eater; I am merely a fool."

"I see," Letha responded. Wearily, she recited the standard response, "You were tricked into supporting the Dark Lord and..."

"No!" he croaked. The dementor glided toward him, and his body shuddered with wracking agony. Reflexively, Letha shouted at the dementor, "Go away!" She shrank back as it turned its hooded face towards her. "It's good to know there are still some people with decent instincts," said Black appreciatively.

"Funny thing for YOU to say," Letha responded coldly.

"Maybe you're right," said Black. "If there is any chance that Pettigrew is alive, I _will_ find him and kill him." He had an expression of intense hatred on his face.

Letha could not believe what she was hearing. "Is this a confession?"

"I did not kill Pettigrew, though I wish I had." He paused to collect his thoughts. "I know what it looks like, and I cannot say I am blameless. I did something very stupid, and the results were more horrible than I could ever have imagined. But I was never a Death Eater. I have nothing else to tell you." The interview was concluded.

Here was a puzzle. Letha had interviewed accused Death Eaters who refused to talk. While the Lestranges had refused to talk, it was because they were unrepentant and wore their life sentences in Azkaban with pride. Some were terrified of the consequences of betraying their fellow Death Eaters. Other Death Eaters who denied having been supporters of Voldemort, or claimed to have been under an Imperius Curse. But in those cases, they denied any wrongdoing as well; they certainly did not confess to murderous impulses. Those who did confess always blamed someone else, which Black did not do.

Her mind turned to the thought of Lucius Malfoy, who claimed he had always been opposed to Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and all they stood for. No one would be gullible enough to believe that - except the Ministry of Magic, of course! It was unfortunate she had never had a chance to confront Malfoy directly. Even though she had done the bulk of the work on his case, the file had been officially assigned to George Bailey. George wasn't the hardest worker, but his family's lineage gave him sufficient social status to presume to interview Malfoy. _We wouldn't want to offend a Death Eater, would we? _she mused bitterly.

Black was a different matter. His denials, as preposterous as they sounded, had the ring of sincerity to them. Perhaps, she thought, he is insane. That would explain why he seemed relatively unaffected by the dementor. But it made no sense to think he was insane _because_ he seemed to be abnormally sane. At any rate, Black could not, or would not explain, why scores of eye-witnesses had described how he'd blasted a hole in the street, killing Pettigrew and a dozen Muggles. And had the nerve to say he'd do it again! Except he claimed he hadn't done it in the first place...it just made no sense.

Letha told the guard that the interview was over, and the dementor accompanied Black out of the room. Letha then informed Glorf he could bring in the next prisoner to be interviewed. The guard left, and returned a few minutes later with another wretched-looking creature. This one presented with the same greenish-gray complexion, the same emaciated frame. His hair hung in greasy black strings; he made no effort to push it out of his unfocused eyes. The Wizard slid down into the seat recently occupied by Black, regarding her dully, with no sign of recognition.

She had come expecting to gloat, but could not bring herself to feel any delight in his deplorable condition. She reminded herself that he had committed heinous acts, that he was a disciple of You-Know-Who. Worst of all, she and her family had welcomed him as a friend, and he had betrayed their trust. She could never forget that - or forgive him.

Letha pulled out the file. "Severus Snape!" she read off the parchment, as if he were a complete stranger. In fact, she thought, he _is_ a complete stranger.... He did not react. The dementor moved closer to him. As with Black, a wracking chill shuddered down the length of his body. He opened his eyes and looked out in her direction, though she was uncertain that he was actually looking at her. His eyes were blank and lifeless; they seemed incapable of focusing on her or anything else. She wondered whether there was really any point to interviewing prisoners this way, but knew there was a certain protocol to follow.

She forced herself to address the dementor. "I cannot question him like this. You really must back off a bit," she pleaded. It glided back to its prior position, but no further. She would have to make the best of it.

"My name is Letha Faraday. I represent Bartholomew Crouch, Ministry of Magic, Criminal Prosecution Division," she intoned. "You are accused of participating in criminal acts against society, as a Death Eater, and individually. I am here to offer you an opportunity to present information that may provide evidence of duress, coercion or other mitigating factors. You also may..."

He hoarsely uttered a few words, which she could not understand.

"Could you repeat that?" Snape tried to say something, but he began coughing raspily. Letha asked Glorf if the prisoner might have a drink. He looked uncertain. "For goodness sake, I need to hear what he has to say!" she chided him. He told the other guard to bring some water.

After he took a long drink from the cup that was proffered to him, Snape looked up. His eyes still looked blank, but at least he seemed to be speaking to her now. His voice still harsh and croaking, he flatly informed her, "I have nothing to say to the Ministry."

She could feel a ball of anger rising inside her stomach. Did he think he had any options? Of course, he was not the first Death Eaters she had encountered who had this defiant attitude; they considered themselves above the law. She stared at him in disgust as she considered how to proceed. Letha stood up and moved closer to him. Slowly and clearly she hissed the word "_Morsmordre_!". She snarled in his ear, "Are you going to tell me you never uttered that word?" He curled his lip into a sneer, but said nothing.

"There is a certain incomparable thrill you get when another being is helpless at your feet, is there not?" She motioned as if with a wand. "_IMPERIO_! When some poor wretch is at your mercy - _CRUCIO_! - and he whimpers with the excruciating pain you have inflicted upon him. This is what gives you pleasure, is it not?" He did not react.

"Or perhaps you derive most enjoyment from the Killing Curse, is that it? Is it the power to cause death with a mere two words that you find most gratifying?" She brought her face very close to his and hissed, "I am mistaken, am I not, Mr. Snape? I suspect you are too weak and impotent to perform the Unforgivable Curses yourself. You carried out your master's orders by playing with your little powders and nostrums, is that it?" She smiled at him unpleasantly. "Fussing with your silly potions to be used by those with real power."

He sneered back at her, turning red, but clearly trying to maintain his self-control. "Shut up!" he hissed back at her.

"I know what a slimy, pathetic creature you are, Snape," she said quietly. "Skulking around, passing along information to those with the guts to use it."

His face contorted with fury and he spat at her, "You idiot, you don't know what you are talking about!"

This was more than she was going to tolerate. There was ample documentation of his crimes - and she _knew_ the official reports did not tell the whole story. She was absolutely certain he had something to do with her grandmother's death, which had resulted in her father's unwarranted dismissal, humiliation and suicide. Surely he was at least partially to blame for all of those things. It was time to really put some fear into him.

In a soft, venomous voice, she said, "I don't recommend insulting the very person who is trying to help you. Particularly when you have a dementor for company." She smirked. "At any moment, I could decide," she glanced up at the dementor, "that it is time for a kiss!" The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them, because the dementor apparently took her words to be its cue. It because it began to slide forward and raise its hood. Letha felt an icy chill pierce her veins. "No!" she shouted frantically, "I didn't mean it. Go away!" The dementor continued to remove its hood, inching closer. Snape had turned a ghastly chalk-white and was drenched in a cold sweat. He cringed in his seat, but seemed unable to move. The dementor stood over him now, with its mouth open. Letha threw her arms around his neck and placed her head over his. "Stop! Stop!" she screamed. Glorf stood gibbering hysterically, totally useless.

Letha did her best to gather her senses, and concentrated. After her very first visit to Azkaban, she had decided she would never ever set foot in the place again, unless she knew how to produce a Patronus "just in case". She had spent hours after work practicing, for weeks on end. She'd managed to do it, but had hoped - and believed - she'd never actually need to put her new skill to the test. Now, there was no choice. She clutched Snape's neck tightly and remembered all those years ago, when she'd thought he was her friend, when she looked forward to each new morning as a chance for new adventures, a chance for new conversations, a chance to gaze into his intense black eyes that had bewildered her with their strange effect of setting her young heart a-flutter. She could actually hear their soft padding footfalls on the rich summer-warm loam of the forest floor, and when a small red fox came scrabbling up after them, she scarcely recognized her own Patronus, until she felt the chill begin to dissipate. She opened her eyes and watched as the dementor backed away and slowly re-hooded itself. Letha took a deep breath. In a shaky voice, she whispered in Snape's ear, "I'm so sorry; I'm so sorry," over and over, until he shoved her away and she sank into her seat, shaking.

She watched him anxiously, while he sat silently and motionless, with his eyes closed. He seemed to be making a great effort to compose himself and focus his thoughts - surely not an easy matter under the circumstances. Not a word was spoken for several minutes. Glorf cleared his throat. "Is the interview over?"

"No, no, she responded hastily. "A little longer." She turned back to the prisoner.

"Listen to me carefully, Faraday." He began to speak in a voice so soft, she had to strain to hear him:

"There is only one man to whom I can tell;   
You will understand if you listen well:   
He is a man whom we both know;   
When he went to Paris, he came out of the shadow;   
Into sunlight colored with such purity;   
As to cause a great alchemist to sigh with envy."

Then he slowly opened his eyes and looked at her. They regarded one another intently for a moment, as if trying to read the other's thoughts, until Glorf guffawed idiotically. "What kind of stupid thing was that to say?" he asked.

Letha glanced at Snape. "Oh," she answered.

Glorf indifferently, "he's probably going mad. Not too surprising, is it, after what happened?" Glorf smirked and nodded his head vigorously.

What did his riddle mean? And why should she care? She felt bad that her attempt at intimidation had gone so utterly awry, but even that had not been sufficient to persuade him to give any meaningful answers. He was not going to betray his fellow Death Eaters, apparently. She took another look at the face of the prisoner, this man who had once, however briefly, been her dearest friend. If there was any question about it before, surely he despised her now.


	13. A Little Favor

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
**Author notes:** Thanks again to June for beta-ing this & handling my self-pitying rants with aplomb.

Chapter 12

That evening, Letha had a great deal to think about. What had Snape meant?

_"There is only one man to whom I can tell;_

_You will understand if you listen well:_

_He is a man whom we both know;_

_When he went to Paris, he came out of the shadow;_

_Into sunlight colored with such purity;_

_As to cause a great alchemist to sigh with envy."_

A man they both knew - who went to Paris? What was he talking about? She could think of no such a person. Then she considered Paris from Greek mythology. That didn't make sense either. "If you listen well"? - maybe the key was in the words themselves. Paris - shadow - sunlight - alchemist - an alchemist makes gold - sunlight is gold. Golden sunlight? She was still perplexed. Maybe some sleep would help. But she could not sleep; she kept thinking about the riddle.

Words - listen to the words -she thought; in Paris, the words are in French. She took a quill and parchment, and wrote:

Shadow - Ombre

Sunlight - Lumiere de soleil

Golden - Or - De l'or - D'or

She stared at the words. Ombre. "Of the shadow" - De l'ombre - or D'ombre. "D'ombre" - into gold - "D'or". D'ombre. D'or. She said it out loud. "D'ombre! D'or!" She repeated it. And then it occurred to her - Dumbledore!

But why? She considered the question soberly. She thought about Malfoy's case. The Ministry had cleared Malfoy without so much as a trial. Maybe Snape thought Dumbledore would do the same for him? That was not going to happen! There would be no favors, no pardons, if she could help it.

Then again, Dumbledore was not a politician. He was _different_. She had always admired his independence and forthrightness, his willingness to stand up to those in power. What should she do, what was right? She wanted to do the right thing. She suddenly felt very weary, and closed her eyes. In front of her she saw Snape's black, empty, bloodshot eyes. As she gazed at them, they transformed into a boy's eyes, and she watched as they peered up at her from a pale mud-streaked face. She opened her own eyes and shook her head to clear away the image. She decided - against her better judgment - she would contact Dumbledore.

That issue resolved for the moment, her thoughts turned to Sirius Black. He was clearly guilty, yet he insisted he was not. Pettigrew was dead, that much was certain, and there were scores of identical eyewitness accounts pointing to Black. Simple. Then again, when was anything ever simple? As ridiculous as it seemed, maybe she should review the facts. That way, at least she would be satisfied.

And who was the troublemaker who had taught her to think that way? Dumbledore, of course! Grandma Ephie. Her parents. But Ephie was dead. Daddy was dead. Mummy was in St. Mungo's, completely off her rocker.

After a good cry and a cup of tea, Letha's head felt clearer. She composed a vague, brief note.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

A former student sends regards from Azkaban.

Regards,

L. Faraday

She was afraid to be more explicit, in case it was intercepted. She tied it to her owl's leg and sent the owl on her way. Then she picked up one of the Black files to re-read, starting with one of the five separate Auror's reports.

After several hours of sifting through evidence, Letha concluded that there was one aspect of the Black case, which had not been explored. She had found a witness statement by a Muggle police detective named Inspector McCullough, in which he referred to some "forensic evidence" which should be examined. In its wisdom, the Ministry had seen to it that the detective had been Obliviated. Furthermore, whatever "forensic evidence" he referred to had apparently been ignored, because the Ministry had no interest in Muggle methodologies.

Letha had no idea how to track down this evidence, but she thought the best place to start would be to look for McCullough. It seemed likely that he worked at the local police station where the attack occurred, and that she even might find the evidence there. When she was younger, she had enjoyed reading Muggle detective novels, and was excited at the idea of playing that role herself. She wanted to get to work on it right away. First she stopped by the office. She asked George Bailey to let her supervisor know she would be out for a day or two "verifying sources"; he agreed to pass on that vague message in exchange for an equally vague promise of a date with her sometime in the near future. Then she went home to prepare her supplies. She put together a simple but functional Muggle wardrobe to take along, some currency, a map, some other necessaries. She stuffed it all in a large shoulder bag that said "LV" all over it. She had no clue what "LV" stood for, but it had been a birthday gift from her friend Anjana's Muggle parents, and she though it would serve the purpose. She examined the map, and found a spot where she thought she might Apparate inconspicuously. After all her preparations had been made, she ate a light dinner and went to bed early.

**Author notes:** Couldn't help wondering what a witch might think about an item intentionally made valuable by plastering it with the maker's initials - especially if those initials are "LV."


	14. Letha Faraday, PI

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 13

Before dawn the next day, Letha was out of bed. She dressed in a light gray wool suit, and marveled that Muggle women could go around wearing tights and cour-shoes all the time. She gathered her traveling gear, checked her map one last time and Disapparated. When she Apparated, she was standing in the middle of a small park, next to the statue of a uniformed man on a horse. The first rays of light were just beginning to appear in the east. With nowhere yet to go, Letha sat down on a bench, wishing she had brought something warmer to wear.

By the time the sun had completely risen, she began to see a few people pass by, most of them walking dogs. It seemed strange to her to see dogs on leashes, as if they were dragons or other dangerous beasts. Most of the passers by ignored her, but a few gave her surreptitious glances, probably wondering what a woman in a business suit was doing, sitting alone in the park at dawn. Realizing it would become more crowded as the hour grew later, and getting bored, she pulled out a book from her bag and began to read. Had someone looked closely, they may have thought "Through the Looking Glass" an odd choice of reading material, but no one ventured that near.

After several hours, Letha stood up and began walking towards the business part of town. She carefully watched how the Muggles conducted themselves, and most particularly, how they avoided getting crushed by automobiles. Letha had been to London a number of times, but there, it was easy to follow the crowds, and there were traffic lights at almost every corner. Besides, it was simpler to blend in; one could always pass as a confused tourist.

Having memorized the map, she knew where she was going. She headed east for three blocks then north for another three. There she found a squat red brick building, with a sign announcing it to be a "Police Station". With a bit of trepidation, Letha clutched her bag, climbed the steps, and entered the building. There were a scattering of men and women there, mostly in uniform. A loud, jarring noise startled her. She realized it was the ring of a telephone.

Stepping over to the front desk, she faced a short, plump woman with abnormally poufy, startlingly blond hair. "Excuse me...," she began. The woman held up her hand and answered the telephone. While the woman was speaking on the telephone, it rang again. She told the first person to wait and began talking to the second person.. This process continued for some time while Letha waited, growing impatient. Finally, she picked up her "LV" bag and plunked it down loudly on the desk. 'COULD I PLEASE ASK YOU A QUESTION?"

The woman finally looked at her. "What do you need?" she asked in a tone suggesting that what Letha needed was of absolutely no interest to anyone.

"Do you know where I might find Inspector McCullough?"

"Who?"

"Inspector McCullough. Doesn't he work here?"

The phone rang again, and the woman answered it. Letha decided to try another tack. She looked around and noticed two uniformed men standing in a corner talking. One was a well-built, pleasant-looking, sandy-haired fellow of medium height. The other was tall and lank with longish black hair and the melancholy expression of a basset hound. She steered herself in their direction. Unaccustomed to wearing shoes with heels, she managed to catch their attention by tripping and practically falling against the sandy-haired officer, who caught her arm and steadied her.

"Thank you so much," she said.

"You're very welcome," he replied with an amiable grin. "I hope I might be of further assistance?"

She smiled back at him. "Well, actually, yes, please. Do you know where I can find Inspector McCullough?"

The two officers glanced at each other. "I'm afraid Mick McCullough has retired. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Letha was not sure what to do next. Well, Officer Harris," she said, noting the name on his badge, "I wanted to ask him what he remembers about an incident - a terrible incident - that occurred here a little while back. It involved an escaped convict named Sirius Black."

Officer Harris looked at her gravely. "It's on account of what happened that Mick retired. Weirdest thing - his memory completely gone. Real shame, too. He was a fine detective and a good man."

Letha shook her head. "I'm sorry to hear that. What a shame." She paused. "I don't suppose - do either of you gentlemen have any knowledge about what went on that day?"

The tall police officer, whose badge identified him as Adams, regarded her suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I haven't introduced myself. Norma Jean Baker; I'm a graduate student in forensic science at Cambridge. I'm working on my thesis." She hoped it sounded plausible, and if she needed it, a confirmatory student ID card was safely tucked away in her bag.

.

Harris smiled. "Norma Jean Baker? Like Marilyn Monroe."

Letha's forehead furrowed. "Who?"

He laughed but his partner did not appear amused. "I suppose you're sick of hearing her name," said Harris. "But you're just as pretty," he added gallantly.

"Well, thank you, sir." She smiled at him coquettishly. "That's very kind of you. The thing is, I'm working on a paper about - cases like this."

"What do you mean, _cases like this_?" asked Adams sharply.

Mercifully, Harris intervened. "Pay no attention to him, Miss Baker; he's a right sourpuss. But I'm afraid we can't be of much help." Harris explained that neither he nor Adams had been on duty that day. When they heard what had happened, they had both rushed down to the scene of the disaster, but they were not allowed to enter the site. For some reason, it had been dealt with in a very secretive manner. "You know," he said "I'm surprised you even know about Black. The papers reported it as a gas explosion. I guess they didn't want people to be alarmed, especially since he was arrested pretty quickly. We were told to keep quiet about it, too. It always seemed to me kind of queer. And you know what else?" he whispered. "We know there were plenty of witnesses, but nobody will admit that they saw what happened."

"That is odd," she commented, knowing full well why that should be. "Do you know if they took any photographs, or obtained any other evidence?"

"I'm sure they did; Mick wouldn't have investigated a crime scene without doing a thorough job of it," Adams said.

"Do you know where the evidence would be now?"

Harris responded. "Since Black was already convicted and sent back to prison, the case is closed. If there's any evidence, it would be stored in the basement files here, or else it was sent down to London."

"Is there any way I can find out?"

"I'll tell you what," said Harris. "Come have a drink with me over at Mulligan's after my shift tonight. We'll talk about all this, and maybe tomorrow we can find out what you want to know. And my name's Emmet, by the way." This was certainly not what Letha had in mind, but she didn't have many options she could see. She must have looked hesitant, because Harris said, "Don't worry. Davy'll join us too, won't you?"

"Well, I don't know about that," Adams grumbled.

_Good_, she thought. _An excuse to skip out._

"What'd'ya mean, you 'don't know about that'? Of course you will."

Adams sighed. "Ya, I suppose."

"Now that's a good lad." Harris winked at her. "See you later, then?"

"Very well," she said, "I'll see you at - "

"Eight tonight.," he responded.

She took her leave and headed down the street, noting Mulligan's Pub on the next corner. She had hours to kill, so she wandered through the neighborhood, watching Muggles being Muggles, which really wasn't all that different from Wizards being Wizards, except for the funny clothing. She looked for the spot where Black had committed his terrible crime. All she found was a large, roughly patched area in the middle of a street, and a street sign turned into a makeshift memorial, with notes and bunches of faded flowers tied to it. It seemed so very sad to her; she had expected something more, but then, she thought, life goes on.... Next, she went into a cafe for a sandwich and tea, and sat reading a local paper she had found on a bench. There was nothing in the paper about the incident, except a notice about a town meeting to discuss improving safety of underground gas lines. After a while, she went into the ladies toilet to change into a dress.

As 8:00 approached, Letha began heading toward the pub where she was meeting Harris. She peeked into the dark and noisy place, which was crowded with people, a number of them in police uniform. She spotted Emmet Harris and Davy Adams sitting in a corner booth and headed over. Harris slid over so she could sit down next to him. Each of the men had a drink in front of him. "What'll you have?" Harris asked.

"Whatever you're having is fine."

He went up to the bar and brought her back a glass of whiskey, setting it down in front of her with a flourish. Letha tasted it suspiciously. She did not much care for alcohol, but after walking around all day in the heat, was very thirsty. She gulped it down quickly.

Harris grinned. "That was impressive!" he joked. He went to get her a replacement for her empty glass. By now, however, Letha was no longer thirsty and her head was starting to spin. Afterward, she could vaguely recall half-listening to Emmet Harris' anecdotes, while his partner sat silently in the corner of the booth, nursing his drink. Unfortunately, she was in no condition to discuss the matter which had brought her there in the first place.

**Author notes:** I have no doubt that the Ministry of Magic would ignore even the most persuasive Muggle evidence.


	15. A Visit to the Alma Mater

Chapter 14

A crash of thunder startled Letha from sleep. She looked around, but it was pitch black. There was a torrential storm raging outside; she could hear the rain pouring down above her, water running through the gutters below her. For a moment, she drew a complete blank. She remembered now - she supposed she must have gone home with the Muggle policeman Harris, though he was nowhere in sight. She looked at the clock on the bedside table; it was 4:00 a.m., and her head was pounding. It occurred to her that she had to get up.

Letha carefully reached over and felt for her bag on the floor, drew out her wand and whispered "Lumos!" Then she opened the door and found herself in another room with a couch on one end, and it was apparent there was a person lying upon it, swathed in a blanket. Her first priority was to ensure that Harris should not wake up and start asking questions she would not care to answer. She cast a sleeping charm on him and then walked over to where he lay. As she held the lit wand near the head-end of the blanket-lump, she made an unexpected discovery - from under the cover spilled some strands of black hair. She peeked under the blanket and, sure enough, it was Davy Adams. "How," she wondered, "did this come to pass?"

Letha went back to the bedroom, picked up her bag and made her way to the bathroom, so she could wash up. She opened the medicine cabinet and found a bottle labeled "Aspirin". She had heard it was good for headaches, so she took two of the tablets, popped them in her mouth and began to chew them. They tasted so vile, she immediately spit them out and rinsed her mouth with water.

She then looked at her map, and considered the location of the police station. Once she had oriented herself, she Disapparated, and then Reapparated in a dark, musty room. She laws surrounded by piles of boxes, files, crates and bags. Apparently, she had successfully located the police station's storage room. After hunting around for nearly an hour, she located a box which contained packets full of photographs, soil samples, charts and various other items Letha did not recognize. In addition, there were some papers, and among them was McCullough's report. She was not surprised, though she was disappointed, to read an account that matched - exactly - what Bailey had told her and what she had subsequently read in the Daily Prophet and in Ministry records. Again, there was the reference to the evidence, which was "to be evaluated;" as the evidence referred to was sitting in the very box she was looking through, it had apparently never been examined. She debated whether she should take it all with her, but decided that would be highly unethical, and logistically difficult. If she needed, she knew where she could find it again.

In a separate alcove, she found a disorderly hodgepodge of bags and boxes, through which she also rummaged. Among them, she discovered a large plastic bag containing an assortment of papers shoved together haphazardly with a collection of personal photographs, plaques, knickknacks, magazines and other items. She picked up one of the plaques - it was awarded to Inspector Michael McCullough for meritorious duty. Clearly, she was on the right track.

She brought the bag over to a table and dumped out the contents. She pulled out all the papers, notes and memos she could find and began to skim through them. She pulled out a note written on lined yellow paper, which was partly stuck into a magazine of nearly naked women. It had caught her eye because of the large red question mark drawn in the top margin. She opened it up. In the center, someone had drawn a large irregular oval. A dozen X's were scattered throughout the oval, labeled X1, X2, X3, and so forth. On the left arc of the oval was written "SB," and on the right arc was a question mark. A note at the bottom said "X3 angle? X11 dir.?" Below that it said "Target?" And "Check w/ lab". It certainly didn't make any sense to Letha, but it clear that McCullough had some questions in his mind, before they were wiped away with apparent over-enthusiasm by the Ministry. She decided that the note would not be missed, and popped it into her tote. Then she stuffed the rest of the papers and items back in the plastic bag, which she replaced where she'd found it. Her timing was perfect; just as she was putting the bag back in the alcove, a light went on and she heard someone descending the stairs. Hastily, she waved her wand and Disapparated, Moments later, she was back home.

Chapter 15

Several days later, Letha came home from work to find a large gray owl patiently waiting for her. She untied the note from its leg.

In a large, uneven scrawl, it said:

Dear Miss Faraday:

It was lovely to hear from you. An evening visit from you would be most welcome, the sooner the better.

Fondly,

Hagrid

It was apparent that Dumbledore was being cautious in his communications, as she had been, because she certainly had never written to Hagrid. If the Headmaster was involved in some clandestine activities, she only hoped he had enough confidence in her to allow her to be of some assistance. She wasted no time in preparing for a visit to Hogwarts. She was not sure what exactly would transpire there, but she was excited at the prospect. She had not been back since she'd completed her studies, and thought how nice it would be to return. Some pleasant memories of her school days brought a smile to her face - but the smile faded as she recalled some of the less agreeable details.

She remembered returning to Hogwarts for her third year. She remembered how carefully she had avoided certain people. She remembered her tearful meeting with Professor Dumbledore, begging him to change the schedule so she would not have to take any classes with the Slytherin students. He had told her could not do that. She had endured a fair number of classes shared with the students of that accursed house, and she had found it almost unbearable when some of the Slytherin boys would smirk at her malevolently and whisper behind her back. Fortunately Malfoy had graduated, but clearly, he'd made no secret of what had happened. Snape had never joined in the ridicule, to her recollection; perhaps even he had limits to his capacity for cruelty. Instead, he simply avoided her altogether, and she had done the same.

She remembered getting the terrible news about Grandma Ephie and Mimi - Dumbledore had been so kind, letting her go home for a while and make up her work when she returned. When the Ministry held a hearing on whether to suspend her father from his job on a permanent basis, the Headmaster had come himself to testify on Walter's behalf - to no avail. It had been a big comfort to her and her parents, to know that he, at least, did not believe that Grandma was senile or that she had started the fire herself. Nevertheless, Daddy was demoted and the rumors continued to circulate. She remembered returning to school afterward - the comments, the whispers, the insinuations, not only from Slytherins, but from some those whom she had counted as friends. One night her father went to his office, pointed his wand at his temple and killed himself. Again, Letha headed home for an unscheduled and unwanted holiday.

Already desolate, her mother found Walter's death more than she could bear. Her mind began to wander and she gradually lost all touch with reality. By the time Letha had started her fifth year, May Faraday was living at St. Mungo's, endlessly searching for her husband who would never return and her little girl who was no longer a little girl; she did not recognize the teenager who came to visit her. For her part, Letha threw herself completely into her studies and a few close friendships, eventually giving up on visiting the mother who did not know her.

Letha remembered how, in those terrible years, the rumors about You-Know-Who became more than rumors, the terrible stories she heard, the disappearances, the tales of torture and murder, the growing anti-Muggle sentiment. Some had become bold enough to threaten and menace the so-called 'Mudbloods' at school, to intimidate those who did not agree with them - and she also remembered how Dumbledore was able to control them, quite effectively, under the circumstances. She could think of no one else who would have been powerful enough to keep Hogwarts a safe haven for so many children. No one else could have held together a school where followers of Voldemort studied alongside their Muggle-born classmates, and yet no really serious incidents occurred. At least, not at the school.

Under the circumstances, Dumbledore had done an incredible job of keeping Hogwarts functioning smoothly. It was really a wonder, when she thought about it, that she did even have some happy memories of her school days.

Letha finished preparing her travel bag and took a long restful bath. She thought about Black and Snape and Dumbledore. She wracked her brain trying to remember how she'd ended up in bed with the tall laconic dark-haired policeman, and had an uncomfortable feeling she knew why, if not how. It was not a feeling she welcomed. She came out of the bath and dressed. Once darkness fell, she threw on a cloak and Disapparated.

The next thing she knew, Letha was standing in a densely wooded area. As she glanced around, she saw a light between clumps of trees. That, she recognized as Hagrid's hut. She made her way over to it, trying with moderate success to avoid tripping over roots or getting scratched by thorn bushes.

Almost as soon as she began knocking on the door, a huge figure appeared in the doorway, his face an unruly mass of thick and bushy beard. "Come in, come in!" he boomed. "I've been expectin' ye."

"Oh, Hagrid, it's wonderful to see you again," she said enthusiastically.

"I'd offer ye some tea, but the Headmaster said to bring ye to him straight way." He grabbed his coat and opened the door for her. They walked across the grounds between the Forbidden Forest and Hogwarts Castle. "Gettin' you over here sure was easier," he commented.

"Easier than what?"

Hagrid smiled sheepishly. "I'd better not say no more. It's just that - well - you don' have Dementors trying' ter follow ye into Hogwarts."

Who were Dementors following to Hogwarts? she wondered. They entered the school and she followed him over to the entrance to Dumbledore's office, where they climbed a flight of winding stairs. The Headmaster stood at the top. Recently, Letha had only seen him from a distance at some of the trials; close up, she could see how tired and worn he looked.

"Thank you Hagrid; you may go."

Hagrid nodded and left.

"Come in, my dear," Dumbledore said, "It is a pleasure to see you."

"You too, Sir. It's really lovely to be back here." She glanced around the office, of which she only had a hazy recollection. She'd only been in there a few times, and they were not times when she'd have been likely to have examined her surroundings with any interest. As her eyes scanned the room, she realized there was someone else standing on the other side of the office. Although his face still bore a strained haggard look, his skin was less gray than it had been at Azkaban, and his eyes, no longer unfocused, regarded her with undisguised dislike. "Good evening, Mr. Snape," she said curtly. He did not respond, except with a sneer in her direction.

Dumbledore looked over at Snape. "Of course, I am certain Severus is aware that had you not contacted me, he would still be in Azkaban at this very moment. Is that not so?" he asked Snape mildly.

"And I am grateful to you, Headmaster." Then he turned to Letha and bowed deeply. "I am most grateful for your kindness," he declared, in a tone of sincere sarcasm, his words belied by his belligerent glare.

Letha frowned. She had alerted Dumbledore to his situation, against her better judgment. It was true she'd been a bit overzealous in her interrogation at Azkaban, with nearly disastrous results, but she _had_ apologized. What right did he have to be so surly? Why did he seem to hate her? And if he did hate her, why had he sought her help?

"Professor Dumbledore," she asked, seething with irritation, "why is Snape here without any guard? He could try to escape. And after all, he could be dangerous!" She knew she was simply being spiteful, but she didn't care. All the anger and resentment that had been festering while she kept silent through the past ten years was coming to the surface. Although she spoke to Dumbledore, her eyes were focused on Snape. He glared back at her with malice equal to her own.

Dumbledore responded mildly. "On the contrary, he is the one who is in danger."

"From the Dementors?" she asked sourly. "Well, that's understandable, of course. After you're finished with him, I suppose he will be back at Azkaban, and we can continue our investigation. Perhaps he will go to reside there on a permanent basis."

His face a shade close to vermilion, Snape snarled, "You pretentious, hypocritical little bureaucrat."

"Severus," said Dumbledore, "So far, Miss Faraday has no reason to trust you."

"Nor I her," said Snape.

"Then why," Letha asked him between clenched teeth, "did you take the risk of asking me to contact Professor Dumbledore? What if I'd refused?"

The Headmaster answered. "He did so at my instructions. I told Severus if he ever found himself in Azkaban, I would certainly find out, but that it would be quickest if he had a way of notifying me - through someone I could trust, with whom he might come in contact there. You are one of those few people."

Letha was truly touched to know Dumbledore had such faith in her, but then, it seemed that he trusted Snape as well. Well, she thought, she knew better. "Headmaster, there is can be no doubt that Snape is a Death Eater. Why are you helping him?"

"Actually," he answered, "Severus has been helping_ me._ He has not been a Death Eater for some time."

"I did not know that a belated change of heart can excuse the vilest acts...."

Snape practically lunged at her. "Vilest acts! _You_, of all people, accuse me?"

Letha was taken aback. What _was_ he talking about? She looked at Dumbledore quizzically.

"It is true that Severus has done things of which I do not think he is very proud. Am I not correct, Severus?" he asked Snape, who seemed to shrink under the older man's gentle gaze. Then Dumbledore looked at Letha. "I believe that people deserve a second chance, even when they have made serious mistakes. Have you never made a mistake for which you feel remorse?"

Letha considered. Confidently, she responded, "No, not really, Sir. Nothing of any particular note." She glowered at Snape. "Regret, perhaps, but not remorse."

Snape walked over to her, slowly and calmly, bringing his eyes level to hers. In a silky voice, he whispered, "Ah, I see there is something _else_ you share with Lucius Malfoy."

Letha felt ill at ease, and confused. What was he talking about? Malfoy? She despised Malfoy. What could she possibly share with him? Evil, unrepentant, cruel, wicked - she put her hand over her mouth. "Oh, no!" she gasped in horror, and felt herself sinking to the ground.

Snape reached out a hand and grabbed her elbow roughly to steady her. She covered her face with her hands and dared not look up. She had locked that memory away in a deep recess of her mind, and had managed to forget it, for the most part. Yet here he was bringing this horrible childhood memory back to her consciousness, throwing it in her face like vitriol. As if it was her fault. As if it had even mattered to him.

Dumbledore gently led her to a chair and sat her down. His eyes bored into Snape's. "Severus, that was really uncalled for. Besides, you are well aware that it was not a matter over which your friend had any real control."

Letha and Snape both sneered at the word "friend."

Dumbledore pretended not to notice. "You will be kind enough to explain that to her, will you not?"

"Yes, Headmaster," he responded, with the tone of a chastised child.

"Now I'm afraid I really most leave you..."

"One moment, Professor Dumbledore, before you leave?" she begged. "Could I come to work for you? The Ministry - "

He interrupted. "The Ministry is where you are most helpful to me. I need to know whom I can count on there."

Letha's shoulders sank. She was getting sick of working for Crouch. As Dumbledore reached the door, Letha called out to him; "One more thing?" and he stopped and waited.

"Well, then, I have to write up a report about him." She glared at Snape. "For the Ministry. Is there anything it should say especially? Or not say?"

"That is a good question." Dumbledore considered. "No, you are a prosecutor. You must present your best evidence - include it all - except - I ask that you put in nothing of what has been said in my office tonight."

"In your office? When was I ever in your office?" She smiled grimly.

Dumbledore looked at them both very seriously. "Some believe Voldemort is dead. I do not believe that is so, and I know you, Severus, have expressed your own skepticism in that regard." Letha stared first at Dumbledore, then at Snape, with horrified astonishment, but she said nothing. "We must ensure that his return will be as difficult as possible. When - not if, but, _when_ he returns (Letha shuddered), his followers will return to him as well. In the meantime, many of them are still among us. We need to know as much as possible who and what we are facing - and will be facing in the future. I can rely on you both, can't I?" They both nodded. "I also hope you can rely on one another?" Again, they both nodded, with somewhat less enthusiasm.

"Good. I am going to have to leave you two for now. I have other matters to which I must attend. Please remain here, and feel free to talk." And with that, he left them alone in his office.


	16. Understanding the Malfoy Mystique

Chapter 16

After Dumbledore left his office, Letha remained in the armchair and Snape paced the room, neither saying a word for some time. Finally, Letha ventured to speak. "Since you've brought up," she grimaced, "sharing things with Malfoy, I don't suppose it was_ you_ who told him about my grandmother living with a Muggle? Because otherwise, how did he find out?" Snape said nothing, while Letha stood up and walked over to him, shaking a finger in his face. "His father must have been ecstatic- who was going to put up a fuss about the suspicious death of some crazy old witch living with a _Muggle_?" Letha shook her head. "They welcomed you into their home like a member of the family. They _trusted_ you. How could you?"

When she finished speaking, Letha looked up, and was surprised to see a softened expression on his face. "I never intended to cause them any harm."

"You never intended? Now there's a worthless excuse!" she said scornfully. "If it's even true, which I doubt."

"It is true, whether you believe it or not." He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly hesitant to continue. "You see, Lucius Malfoy has an uncanny ability to confound one's mind, to blur one's thoughts." His eyes focused tightly on hers as he spoke. "Back then, I was particularly vulnerable to his influence, I'm afraid."

Letha shivered slightly. She knew _exactly_ what he meant. "Then this is what he did to me, as well, isn't it?"

"I suppose so."

_It certainly would explain a great deal_, she thought. "Can he do this to everyone?"

He looked down at his hands. "No. There are many who are susceptible. Not everyone, though," he added, looking up at her again. "I think - it takes a person who possesses certain qualities. Strength of character, a blameless soul, a pure heart." He softly added, "I once would have believed you were such a person. You cannot comprehend how it grieved me to learn it was not so."

No, of course, _she_ had not been blameless and pure. After all, she'd succumbed to Malfoy's influence. _He_ felt aggrieved? _He_ was the one who'd been hurt? Letha was on the verge of tears. "I don't give a damn how you felt! How do you think_ I_ felt, Severus? How long do you suppose it took me to get through a day without reliving it, without feeling sick to my stomach? And you - you didn't give a damn about me! What could it have mattered to you? You threw me out of your house. You refused to talk to me!"

"Did you think so little of me as to believe I would do such a thing without a reason?"

"What reason? Do tell!"

He shook his head. "It no longer matters. That was a long time ago."

Letha banged her fist against the wall in anger and frustration, causing Fawkes the phoenix to let out a squawk. "Severus, you will not forgive me for something that happened when we were children. Yet, when I ask you to help me understand it, you tell me it was too long ago to matter!" She paused. "I never understood how it happened, how I _allowed it_ to happen." Softly she continued. "I believed it was you, I really did. If only - if only it _had_ been you, it would have been all right." _Oh dragon's balls, why did I say that?_

Snape stared at her, his lips curled in revulsion. "No, it would not have been all right!" he spat. "That was precisely the problem!" He pointed at her accusingly. "I would never have done such a thing to you. And if I had, you should have fought me, tooth and nail. You should have died, if necessary, to protect your virtue. I would have - I would have defended you with my life. But apparently, it wasn't all that important to you."

Letha stared at him in astonishment. She thought he hadn't cared. Or - perhaps - he was jealous. Thought she'd been captivated by the allure of Lucius Malfoy? It wasn't really that, was it? No - the problem with her, as he saw it, was that she had not proved herself to be up to his impossibly high standards of perfection. Like him, she was susceptible. Like him, she was merely human. "Oh that is really a touching thought, but as I recall, you did not exactly appear, just in time, to rescue a poor maiden in distress."

Snape gave a derisive snort. "Distress? That is not what I was given to understand."

Letha went absolutely livid. "I've had quite enough of this! A dung beetle would have more empathy! I will not make apologies to you for failing to meet your ridiculous standards of perfection. I think you have some idea that there is the Perfect Woman somewhere out there." She moved in closer to him. "To hell with that. I was there for you. Don't you know that? Your perfect woman, she wasn't there. She doesn't even exist."

"You are wrong - she does exist. Or rather, she did. It was simply - not - _you_. You turned out not to be the person I thought you were. And - you did me the great favor of proving the fickleness and futility of friendship."

"Did I? That's not how I see it. Quite the other way around."

Snape ignored her comment. "Had it been possible to convince another that were so, had he not been so pig-headed and arrogant, _she_ would still be alive."

"What are you talking about?"

"That is none of your business."

Letha threw up her hands in disgust. "This is going nowhere." She didn't want to talk about it anymore. She was bewildered and upset and in no mood for any more insults or incomprehensible bits and pieces of meaningless information. "OK, look, just tell me more about Malfoy. I really want to understand this, for many reasons, and Dumbledore said you should tell me."

"Yes, I know. It's a long story, actually."

"That's fine. I'm listening."

Snape grimaced, but he'd promised Dumbledore, and Letha was quite certain he wouldn't renege "Very well. I will tell you what I know." Then he sat down for several moments of silence before he began to speak.

"As a boy, I was fascinated by the books my father kept in his study." An odd expression crossed his face, which Letha could not interpret. "Sometimes I borrowed books without his knowledge. There was one small curious volume. I did not even understand the title, but I kept it, hoping to make sense of it one day. It seemed to be written in some ancient and remote language, which I could not decode. I could find nothing that resembled it, not in any bookshop, nor in the Hogwarts Library. Even in the Restricted Section, there was nothing like it."

"Several years ago, I gained access to a remarkable library, truly unsurpassed. It had works of great antiquity. Forbidden works. Irreversible poisons, horrifying spells and terrible curses Grimoires filled with the magic of Dark Arts that were even outlawed in the wild and chaotic days before the Ministry of Magic existed, spells and curses that could have destroyed the world before it was scarcely even born." He paused. "It was the most remarkable treasure trove I could ever have imagined."

Letha grimaced. "A treasure trove? Interesting way to describe it."

"How could one fail to be intrigued?" Letha wondered if he really saw any difference between that and their youthful excursions in the forest.

"One day I came across a tiny grey pamphlet, tucked into another book. I immediately recognized the unusual writing on the cover - it matched the manuscript I'd taken from my father's study. This pamphlet held the key that explained the code to that book. I discovered the ingenious cryptogram used by the writer. He had employed an ancient Druidic rune, using the language of an obscure Semitic dialect, and then he applied a mathematical code. I set to work right away. It took some time to decipher."

"What was it that required such secrecy?" Letha's curiosity was piqued, though she could not imagine what this had to do with Lucius Malfoy.


	17. The Predisposition: More on the History ...

Chapter 17

"I learned that the book was written by an ancestor of mine named Rabotham Snape - a man of great brilliance and few scruples. It was his intention, he wrote, to develop a potion so potent, that the man who drank it would be capable of exerting the most irresistible influence on those who came near him - in his words - 'bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses'. The man who took this potion would thenceforth and forever be able to bend the will of others to his own ends - be they political, financial or - " he glanced at her reproachfully, "seh...ssss....thhhh.....theh...."

"Sexual?" snapped Letha.

"Right," he responded abruptly. It appeared to Letha there was the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks. Regaining his composure by wrapping himself in his robe, cocoon-like, he continued. "It appears that he was successful - - after a fashion."

"What do you mean?"

"My ancestor had a most successful business, procuring and selling potion ingredients, wand filaments and other magical items to merchants, as well as a certain select clientele who were primarily interested in Dark Magic. He had two partners, Ozymandias Black and William Malfoy.

"Rabotham told his partners about the remarkable elixir he had created, and they made a pact. At the same time, they would each drink a goblet of the potion - and when the potion took effect, they would become a formidable force. He had grandiose dreams - he envisioned that they could eventually control all commerce, law and political power in the Wizarding World.

"At the appointed time, the three men met in Black's study. As the clock struck midnight, they each quaffed a goblet of the steaming liquid. Immediately, Black began to scream in pain, and the other two watched in horror as his body ignited like a torch. After only a few moments, nothing remained of him but a small pile of smoking, blackened entrails. Snape and Malfoy trembled in fear, anticipating the same fate. But remarkably - on Rabotham Snape - it had no effect at all. He was at first relieved, and then bitterly disappointed. He believed his potion was a complete disaster - until he saw its effect on Malfoy. As he watched, William Malfoy was visibly wrapped in an aura of magical energy; the man practically glowed with the effect of the potion. As the two men stood there, while the potion's effects grew stronger, Black's eldest son entered the room. Without hesitation, Malfoy picked up Snape's wand and struck the young man dead with a curse. Rabotham was enraged beyond measure. He could not believe that fate should be so cruel to him - his potion was ineffectual on its creator, yet achieved the desired effect on Malfoy. Then, by killing Black's son with Snape's wand, Malfoy created a means, by which to blackmail his partner into acquiescence with his designs. Still, Rabotham was the only one who could produce the formula. Eventually, the two men came to a mutually beneficial understanding.

"My ancestor realized that he had placed an extremely formidable weapon at Malfoy's disposal. It endowed Malfoy with an irresistible influence on the minds of others, and Malfoy was very adept at wielding that influence. Unfortunately, the potion only had the desired effect on a select few - those with a certain predisposition. Malfoy, apparently, was so blessed, but Rabotham himself, was not. Snape and Malfoy continued the business partnership, which was run primarily in accordance with the dictates of William Malfoy."

"And what became of the potion?"

"Rabotham had made one cauldronful, which he bestowed on William, as part of their contractual agreement. He told Malfoy he had destroyed the formula, and could make no more of it. Malfoy was very angry, of course, but Snape only agreed to give him the potion as long as the contract contained a clause protecting Rabotham and his heirs from retribution by Malfoys. William transferred the remaining potion into dose vials, which he stored away carefully in a family vault. Each vial was to be administered to the first-born son of each generation of Malfoys; I assume that is what has, in fact, occurred."

"Then Lucius - "

"Yes. Lucius, like his forbears, had the predisposition. His remarkable influence on others derives in part from his own wealth and power and guile and his understanding of how to wield those weapons, but even more importantly, he can influence even many of those who might otherwise resist him. That influence, of course, derives from the ancient elixir."

"How does it work?"

"Its effect relies on proximity. It is in his exhalations, his sweat, his blood - it exudes from his very pores. It can cause others to do what they would not do, to believe what is clearly false, to lose hold of reason, to succumb to their most irrational fears and desires.

But there ARE those who, it seems, are born immune to the effect;

And there are those pure enough of heart not to be affected. -

And there are those strong enough to resist."

Letha pondered. "Why has Malfoy never himself attempted to achieve power, like Voldemort had?"

"The Dark Lord was a great wizard with powers unequaled by anyone - almost anyone, I should say," he said, his eyes flickering towards Dumbledore's desk. "The Malfoys are clever, cunning and unscrupulous, but even with the potion flowing through their veins, have never been able to achieve that level of greatness. This, I might add, has always suited their purposes. You know how Lucius is very adept at slipping in and out of his professed allegiances with remarkable ease."

"Yes, I know." Letha sighed. "And the potion - "

Snape grinned at her - a frightening, cunning grin that caused her to shudder slightly. "The potion - ah, yes, the potion. There is no more. Lucius was given the very last vial on his first birthday. Now, he has a young son of his own, who reached his first birthday about the same time the Dark Lord disappeared. Lucius is most anxious to acquire more of the potion, so that his son can continue in the family tradition."

"But there is no more, is there? Isn't that what you said?"

"True, but - Rabotham's book contains the formula. It is very complicated, but I believe I could make it myself. Although Lucius does not know where I found the formula, he does know that I have it."

"How does he know that?" she asked in alarm.

"I told him."

"Are you insane, Severus?"

"Not at all. It is a form of insurance. He is my greatest protector, at least as long as he does not have the formula in his possession."

"Are you positive he can't persuade you to give it to him?"

"I could not even if I wanted to. It is in very safe hands, I assure you. And it is far too complicated for me to make from memory." He added, "Lucius thought I would give it to the boy as a gift on his first birthday. I would not, of course."

"How did he react to that news?"

Snape's lips curled into a thin smile. "Oh, he respected me for it. He concluded that I was holding out for something of great value in return. He is convinced that he only needs to determine my price, and provide a quid pro quo."

"He's wrong, isn't he?" she asked softly.

"There is nothing I want from Lucius Malfoy."

"What do you want, Severus?"

He seemed to consider the question for a few moments, but instead of answering, asked her, "What is it that YOU want, Miss Faraday?

"I want things to make sense. I want good things to happen to good people and bad things to happen to bad people. That is what I want"

"Really? You are deluded, if you believe that might happen. You are a fool to work for the Ministry. You will never get anywhere, and no one will listen to you, because of what you lack."

"And what is that, Mr. Snape?"

"The necessary prerequisites for success in the Ministry are the same as everywhere else. Politics is everything. Success requires power. Power requires influence. Wealth. A liberal application of Dark Magic, dressed up in the trappings of respectability. Surely you realize that. Just look at Malfoy. He hasn't spent a day in Azkaban - - yet. But, who knows?" His eyes glittered malevolently. "I look forward to testifying at his trial."

Letha shook her head. "There isn't going to be a trial. He was acquitted because - well, because he's a Malfoy, I suppose. Record completely expunged."

Snape stared at her in shock for several seconds. Then he began to turn red, gradually achieving a bright plum shade. A vein on his temple throbbed as he shouted at her, "Damn you! How could you allow this to happen?!"

To his astonishment, she began to laugh. "Oh, yes, Severus, you're absolutely right. It's all my fault. I spent six months building a solid case against him, so I could watch him slip away. I think I'll go out and celebrate. I'll have a party! Would you care to join me?"

Snape stood, mouth agape, watching her gasp with laughter. He had to wonder if she had lost her mind. When her laughter turned to tears, he coldly advised her to sit down. He conjured a handkerchief and tossed it at her irritably. "If you had been doing your job, this would not have happened!" As she sat drying her eyes, the door opened, and Hagrid's frame filled the doorway. Upon seeing Letha's red tear-streaked face, he glared at Snape angrily. "What'd ye do ta her?" he growled.

Letha smiled at Hagrid reassuringly. "It's alright; it's not his fault." _Actually, I should let Hagrid give him a good thrashing_, she thought.

"Professor Dumbledore asked me ter take ya downstairs, before he brings up Mr. Fudge," said Hagrid. Snape and Letha both looked at him in surprise. To Snape, he said, "The Headmaster will be up to see yer. He's trying' ta talk Fudge into lettin' ya stay here." Snape turned a whiter shade of pale and nodded, his long fingers clenching and unclenching.

Letha and Hagrid left Snape by himself. As they descended the stairs, she asked Hagrid if she would be leaving now.

"No, Miss. He's afraid you could run into Fudge or someone else from the Ministry. Then you'd haveta explain what you're doin' here. He wants you ta stay here tonight" He led her down several flights of stairs.

"Why are we headed to the dungeons?"

"Least likely to run into anyone. The room's a bit chilly, but I set a nice cozy fire before I came to get ya."

"What about Snape?"

"I di'n't want to be the one to tell him, but even if Fudge lets him stay 'ere tonight, he's back to Azkaban tomorrow, 'til they hold a hearing." Hagrid added "He always was a prickly sort of lad, but I don' reckon he deserves that place."

Letha smiled. "Prickly?"

"That boy was not the sort you'd'a wanted to associate with - I s'pose you never had nothin' to wit' him while ya were here?"

"No," she answered truthfully; at Hogwarts, they'd never spoken a word between them, until tonight.

"Sneaky, bad-tempered sort, but far as I know, never did any real harm. Not like some of 'em he cast in his lot with. Maybe if 'e'd had a decent friend like you, it would've set him straight."

Letha smiled ruefully. "Thanks, Hagrid."

When Hagrid left, Letha looked around. The room was spare and simple, but comfortable. She took off her robe and lay down on the bed. Sleep would be welcome, but it refused to come. She tossed and turned, thinking about everything Snape had told her. At some point, she heard footsteps outside her room, and Hagrid's voice; he must have been taking Snape to his room.

Letha wondered what he must be thinking; by now he had to know he was going back to Azkaban in the morning, unless Dumbledore had changed Fudge's mind. As she lay there, she thought there was a great deal more she should like to ask him about, she had so many questions. Why had he joined the Death Eaters? He must have left them of his own accord - why? After a while, she got out of bed and slipped her robe back on. She opened the door cautiously. Seeing no one in the corridor, she walked along until she saw a room where the shadow of a fire played on the door. Letha hesitated outside the room, then knocked softly. There was no answer, and she decided she should return to her own chamber. As she turned, the door opened and Snape stood scowling at her.

She took a deep breath. "May I come in and talk to you?" she asked. He said nothing, but did not object as she stepped into the room. It was nearly identical to her own. "I wanted to ask you some more questions, if you don't mind." He still said nothing. What did he know about her grandmother's death? That was the first thing. "Did you know...?" she began. "Did you realize...?"

He came over to her and tenderly took her face in his hands. She began to tremble as he stood silently, studying her face. She did not dare to move a muscle. Finally, he spoke, murmuring in her ear, a rumble that vibrated down to her core. "Might I but moor tonight in thee?"

Letha gasped, her eyes welling up with tears. "Oh, any port in a storm, I suppose?" she joked feebly.

He shook his head. "No, only one," he whispered, wiping away her tears.

She closed her eyes and raised her face to his, trembling slightly. This wasn't what had brought her to him, was it? She just wanted some answers, that was all. Wasn't it? But as their lips touched, her questions were forgotten. None of that mattered; nothing else mattered. The rest of the world ceased to exist.

Except for one thing - one single thing that nagged at her. Time had stopped, it seemed. The universe had evaporated. But a fragment of a memory remained behind, prickling at her. _His eyes, look in his eyes. _She had to be certain. _Open your eyes. _She had to know that those were _his_ unfathomable jet-black eyes gazing back at her. She had to be sure.

She opened her eyes- but no eyes at all met hers, only the flickering flames dancing in the fireplace. She opened her eyes and she found herself lying alone in the room where Hagrid had left her. _Oh, you are an idiot, aren't you?_ She closed her eyes.

Wistfully, she put her hand up to her neck to touch the necklace he had once given her.

It wasn't there. She jumped out of bed, in a panic, picked up her wand, and began sending pillows, blankets and bedsheets sailing across the room.

After she'd searched the room thoroughly, she decided to approach the matter more rationally. She retraced her steps from the last time she remembered having the necklace. The inescapable conclusion was that it had to have come off her neck when she was in the Muggle policeman's flat.

She would have to retrieve it - another complication. In the meantime, she decided she'd better get whatever sleep she could. Maybe she could retrieve her dream. Or perhaps it was best if she could not.

****

from Emily Dickinson's poem "Wild Nights"


	18. Your Friendly Neighborhood Copper

Chapter 18

Letha was awakened several hours later by a knock at the door. She quickly threw on her robe, let Hagrid in, and gathered her belongings. They headed over to the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid told her Snape had already gone off with the Azkaban guards and a Dementor.

"I'm surprised they let him remain here all night unguarded."

"Oh, no," said Hagrid. "There was a Dementor outside his door all night. Dumbledore didn't want to permit it, but Fudge insisted."

"I see." It was a very good thing she hadn't actually tried to visit him that night. When they left the grounds of Hogwarts, she gave Hagrid a hug and Disapparated. She reApparated in her own apartment, and set about unpacking her bag. As she pulled out her files, a sheet of yellow note paper fluttered to the ground. As she picked it up, she felt a pang of guilt. She had been so preoccupied with Severus, she had forgotten to mention to Dumbledore what she'd found at the police station. Now she would have to muddle through on her own. If she was going to be so haphazard as to allow her personal feelings to interfere with her thinking, perhaps Crouch was right not to take her too seriously.

Letha considered the reports she was supposed to write. Dumbledore had told her to present Snape's case straightforwardly; she supposed he had his reasons for that. And in truth, she would not feel comfortable about writing it up inaccurately. Yet, leaving out the most interesting parts - what she'd heard in Dumbledore's office- somehow, that did not disturb her conscience at all.

Then, there was the unfinished matter of Black. If the Ministry knew she was poking around, discussing the case with Muggles, no less, she would most assuredly lose her job. If that happened, and if Sirius Black was innocent, as improbable as it seemed, it would not help him one jot if she were sacked. "Well," she thought, "I have to go back for the necklace. Maybe I can get some more information at the same time..." She had no idea how that was supposed to happen.

On her next day off, Letha decided to visit Officer Adams' flat to look for the necklace. Once again, she donned Muggle clothing and packed her 'LV' bag. As she had the first time, she Apparated in the park, and headed for the center of town.

It occurred to her that she had a major problem. She did not know how she had gotten to Adams' place, and since she had Disapparated directly from his flat, she had no idea where exactly he lived. She wandered the neighborhood for a while, hoping something might look familiar.

Letha stopped walking after half an hour, feeling it was all quite futile, and gazed into a store window. She heard a voice behind her. "Well, well, if it isn't the mysterious Miss Norma Jean Baker." She turned around and faced a tall thin dark-haired man. "So, how are things in Cambridge?" he asked. He was dressed in street clothes; it was apparently his day off.

"It's been very busy, actually. I have papers due, you know..."

"Sure do, Norma Jean." He looked at her pointedly and puckered his lips in amusement. "You know, you have to talk to them in the Registrar's office over there at the Institute of Criminology at Cambridge."

"Wha - what do you mean?"

"That is where you study, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, of course." She shifted uncomfortably. "Erm - the Registrar's Office?"

"Seems they don't know of any Norma Jean Baker registered at the moment. They must've made a mistake - don't you think?"

Letha blinked at him innocently. "I will - I will straighten it out just as soon as ...as soon as I can..."

"You're not a very good liar, Miss Baker. What's your real name?"

Letha suspected, quite correctly, that there was no point in lying. "I'm afraid I can't tell you. Does that matter terribly?"

"Not really, I suppose. What I'd like to know is, how did you get out of my flat without me hearing you? They should drum me out of the force for that. You could've robbed me blind, and wouldn't I have looked like a dunce? Of course, if that was your intention, you're not a very good thief either." He smiled wrily. "In case you weren't aware, a thief's supposed to take things. Not leave things behind."

"You found my necklace?" she asked with relief.

"That's why I looked you up. Well, part of the reason. Made a good excuse, didn't it?"

"And, just why did you want an excuse?"

"Come on up for a cup of coffee, would you? And maybe you'll tell me what you're up to? Maybe even your name?"

She hesitated. "No promises."

"None required."

She followed him several blocks to a modest house that had been converted into flats, and they ascended to the top floor. ('_How did I do this in an impaired state?_' she wondered). His flat was small and shabby, but neat. He pulled out a chair for her at the kitchen table and put up a pot of water to boil. "'Fraid I only have instant. Will that do?"

"Sure." ('_Instant what?_' she wondered).

He brought t two mugs of steaming water to the table and poured a spoonful of granules into each. Then he sat down, offering her a jar of sugar. "Now, I don't think you're the kind of girl who usually hangs around in pubs. When you gulped down your drink, I had to wonder a bit, but you got so giddy so fast, I figured that really wasn't what you're accustomed to, is it?"

"I was just thirsty."

Adams laughed heartily at that. Then he looked down at the table reflectively. "I shouldn't have taken advantage of your - condition - like that."

She took a sip of the liquid in her mug, which tasted like it was struggling to imitate coffee. Hesitantly she asked, "Just what condition _was_ I in? I don't remember much."

"You really want to know? Well, for a while, you were busy with old Emmet. Giggling a lot, y'see - really got on my nerves a bit, if you must know. Then he got up to take a - to use the men's room. Next thing, you come over and sit down next to me. I'm just hunkered down there moping into my whiskey, as usual - I figure, I'm going to ignore you, and you'll go away. But you're smiling at me sort of funny - and then you lean over and kiss me. I will tell you, Miss Baker, you are a very good kisser. You certainly got my full attention." He shrugged. "Then Emmet came back."

"Was he angry?"

"Nah. Let's be honest, we're old friends, and - don't be insulted - but you're just some girl he picked up that day. He wished me luck and left."

"Then what?"

"Well, I'm still trying to ignore you. Or pretending to. I figured you weren't really too - aware of things, y'know?"

"Ah, chivalry isn't dead."

"Oh yes it is. Dead and buried, I'm afraid. You're an awfully pretty girl, y'know? And a great kisser - did I mention that? I asked if you wanted to come home with me."

"I suppose I did."

"I suppose you did."

"And then what?" She blushed. "I don't remember anything."

He grinned wickedly. "Well, there's not much to remember, actually. You fell asleep." She grinned back at him. He really was a sweetheart, she thought, especially when compared to a certain someone else she could think of.

"Oh - let me get you your necklace, love." He went into another room and returned with the tiny gold orb on its slender chain. He looked at it, then at her. "It's got some sentimental value, hasn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"You only suppose? You came back to get it from - wherever it is you're from, so it must mean something to you." His eyes narrowed. "Don't want to admit it though, do you? Then it's not from family, is it? And a husband or boyfriend wouldn't give you something so tiny. Well, not now. Maybe, to a school girl? Here's what I think - some boy gave it to you, when you were just a gel. He must still mean a lot to you - you still wear it, and going to all this trouble for such a puny thing."

"You're totally off the mark," Letha retorted, but in fact, she was alarmed at the accuracy of his deductions.

Then he took out his wallet and opened it. He pulled out some plastic cards and showed her a photo he kept hidden behind the cards. It was a picture of an attractive redhead with large green eyes. "No I'm not. Believe me, I know all about it. I'm a bleedin' expert. That's my ex-wife. She's a right one, she is. I still carry her photo around though, y'know? Sentimental value, I suppose." He shoved the photo and the cards back in his wallet, with a snort of disgust.

Letha was eager to change the subject. "Davy, thank you for returning my necklace. But, I'd prefer if you'd stop talking about it.. It's really no big deal. What's more interesting to me is what I came for in the first place - I want to know about Sirius Black."

"He's not the bloke you fancy, I hope?"

Letha smiled. At least she wasn't that much of a mess. "No. I assure you he is not."

"Adams scratched his head. "Then why are you so fascinated with a closed case? Black's back in prison - for life, no parole, I understand." He looked at her suspiciously. "You're not his solicitor, are you?

"On the contrary. I'm a prosecutor."

"Prosecutor? Bit young, aren't you?"

"Well, actually, I'm pretty much at the bottom of the hierarchy. But 'prosecutor' is part of my title, after a string of other words, like "assistant' and 'associate' and 'ignore her she's nobody important' and such."

Adams looked unconvinced. "First of all, I know all the assistant prosecutors around here. And second of all, they don't put people to work on cases that are already closed, do they?"

"But I'm not from around here, am I? And, I'll tell you the truth - I'm not supposed to be poking around; this is all sort of unofficial . I just think some things may have been overlooked."

"What things? What do you mean?"

She couldn't very well tell him. "Last time, you told me McCullough wouldn't have investigated a crime without getting evidence. Where is it? If there's anything, I want to see it. If not, I'll be satisfied - and that will be that. I'll be out of here."

"In that case, I hope we find something," he responded.


	19. Baiting the Hook

Chapter 19

Half an hour later, they were in the basement of the Police Station, standing in front of a large desk. The woman behind the desk was checking through a large ledger book. "Sorry," she said, "all the evidence in that case was sent up to London."

"Are you sure, Gladys?" Adams asked.

"Take a look yourself."

"Can't we look around in the store room, to see if there's a mistake?" Letha asked in dismay.

"No ma'am."

Letha was puzzled. "Do you know when it was sent to London?"

The woman ran a manicured finger down the page. "Oh, about two months ago, dear," said Gladys.

"That can't be!," Letha blurted out. Adams and Gladys looked at her in surprise. Of course, she couldn't tell them how she knew this was not true. She considered. "What about Inspector McCullough's personal papers? Are they here?"

Gladys walked over to a shelf on a far wall, and came back with another ledger book. She dropped it on the desk and opened it up, flipping to the recent entries. "Nobody's picked them up, so they must be here. But you can't see them."

"No?"

"Well, they're personal, you know," she explained, regarding letha quizzically.

"I understand. Thank you." Adams also thanked Gladys, and he and Letha left the station house. Letha chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Davy, I'm not sure exactly what's going on, but something's odd. Would you be willing to help me figure it out? I have to tell you right now, there are things I can't disclose."

"Like your real name?"

"Right. I wish I could but - "

"Then you'd have to kill me."

"What?" She looked at him, perplexed. "Of course not! Why would you say such a thing?"

"Sorry. It was supposed to be a joke. I can see you're not amused."

"No, not at all. If my employers knew I was poking around like this, I'd be sacked for sure. If anyone should ask you about me, under oath, let's say, ('_or under Veritaserum, let's not say_', she thought), well I couldn't ask you to lie, could I? "

"'Course not." Then, out of the blue, he asked, "Do you like to go fishing?"

"What?"

"There's a lake a few miles north of here - great fishing this time of year. We can take along a lunch, toss out a line, and talk about whatever you like. Sound good?"

Letha shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

They traipsed around from grocer's store to tackle shop to his flat, where he picked up fishing gear and a bottle of whiskey. Then they put everything in his car, and got in. She sat down and he said, "Okay, you have to wear your seat belt in my car."

Seat belt? She saw that he'd wrapped himself in some kind of contraption, and she tried to do the same, with little success. He looked at her with a bemused expression. "Wherever it is you come from, don't they have safety belts?" He sighed, leaned over and hooked it in.

"I'm afraid broomsticks don't come with safety belts. Though they probably should - I think I'll suggest it.," she joked.

When they stopped at a traffic light, he said, "Broomsticks? Ah, now that would explain it all. Could our mystery girl be a witch? Now, let's see here." He examined her face. "Nah - no green skin and not a single big hairy wart on your nose."

"Green skin? Hairy warts? I hate those stereotypes!" she exclaimed with irritation. "I've never yet seen - um - " she looked at him sheepishly - he didn't know better, and she was making improvident statements. "I hope you don't think I'm crazy."

"Crazy? Not at all. Well, perhaps a bit. So, why are you so convinced there's something fishy about the Black case?"

"The evidence was there last week. I know it! So, why does that book say it was sent out two months ago? Something is definitely fishy, as you put it. Somebody knows the matter's being looked into. And doesn't want that to happen. Somebody's playing games."

He looked skeptical. "And changing the records around? Those books are locked up when no one's around. Maybe it's magical."

"Oh, be quiet, you. I'm very serious. I thought this was a matter of sloppy investigation and pigheadedness. Now I wonder if it isn't more insidious."

Adams sighed. "Oh dear, are you one of those conspiracy theory types? The government is monitoring our brains through the telly. The Queen herself is watching us through the rear view mirror...."

Letha made a face. This was not going well. "No, nothing like that. (_Actually_, she thought, _something exactly like that_). I didn't know you were so cruel."

Immediately, his attitude changed. "I'm sorry; I was just pulling your leg. Can you forgive me?"

"Certainly. Just warn me when you intend to make a joke at my expense, would you? When we get to where we're going, I want to show you something. Maybe then you won't think I'm crazy." This was probably a very bad idea, but if necessary, she thought, she could always use a memory charm.

A little while later, Adams pulled into a lovely little tree-lined grotto, and parked on the side of the road. They got out, unloaded their supplies, and followed a dirt path to a charming secluded spot alongside a lake.

After they'd eaten lunch, Adams set up the fishing gear (and was immensely pleased when she baited her own hook). They cast their lines and sat down. "Can I show you something, Davy?" Curiously he leaned over to take a look, as she pulled a sheet of yellow notepaper out of her bag.

As he examined the paper, he let out a whistle. "I know that handwriting." Oh yes, he'd received loads of friendly little notes from Mick McCullough. _Finish these reports! Come in tanked again, and I'll have you sacked! _Adams made a face like a prune. "Where'd you get this?"

She knew this was risky. "From the evidence room. It was in with McCullough's things"

"You nicked it? When? How?"

"The first time I was here."

"And I didn't think you were a good thief. How'd you do that?"

"Well..."

"I know. If you told me, you'd have to kill me."

"That's a joke, right? Just making sure." He made a face. "At any rate, there was also a box full of photos, samples and other stuff in the evidence room. I swear I didn't take any of it. So it should still be there. At least, it was there last week."

Adams looked at her thoughtfully. Then he examined the yellow paper again. "You are a troublemaker, aren't you? If I lose my job and end up in the nick myself, I don't even know your name to blame it on you properly."

"That's the general idea."

He brushed a wisp of hair out of her face. "I'm not sure this was such a good idea, coming here."

"I'm sorry. I've put you at risk of losing your job."

"Not so much losing my job, as this," he said, putting his hand on his chest.

"Oh dear." She couldn't help feeling a bit guilty. Not that she'd encouraged him - had she? She thought a moment. ""Here's an idea. Let's catch some fish, gut'em and clean 'em. By the time we're done we'll smell like rotting fish guts. I bet that works better than a cold shower."

Davy chuckled. "A real fisherman loves the stench of rotting fish guts." Having gotten past an awkward moment, they spent the rest of the afternoon fishing and talking. Davy told her about his ex-wife Annie, and Letha did a great imitation of Crouch's prissy officiousness and Fudge's blustering self-importance, for his amusement.

After a while, he interrupted,. "Here I am, reliving my miserable marriage for you, and you haven't said a word about your bloke with the necklace."

She sighed. "I can't claim that he's "my" anything, actually. But since you asked.... let's see, what can I tell you? Well, you see," she glanced abashedly at Adams and continued, "he's tall, thin, pale, with longish black hair and usually doesn't look very happy."

"Now maybe I'm all wrong here, but so far, he rather sounds like the bloke I look at in the morning when I'm shaving. That explains a bit" Davy grinned at her and she blushed.

"Oh, but there's more to it, you see." She looked around. "I thought I saw - aha!" She opened out a large black tarp Davy had brought along in case of rain, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she stared at him icily and swept the tarp around herself. In a deep, dramatic voice, she said, "May I offer you a goblet of poison? It will turn you into a flobberworm, which will surely be an improvement." Then she glared at him unpleasantly until she couldn't help laughing.

"After a long night at Mulligan's, that could be me."

"Oh no - you're lacking that certain _je-ne-sais-quoi_. Greasy hair, perhaps."

"Greasy hair? I guess that's part of his charm."

"Charm? Severus is completely lacking in charm! He's - sneaky. Dishonest. Miserable. Vindictive. Unforgiving." Having started, Letha was quite prepared to continue with an extensive list of the wizard's faults, but the policeman interrupted.

"Unforgiving? What is it he won't forgive you for?"

"I never said...." she began. "Well, nothing that makes any sense," she said sourly. "He can be so irrational. He should have apologized to me, actually. I don't need his forgiveness."

He squeezed her hand gently. "I didn't say you do. You still want it, though, don't you? He could be the biggest jerk, and it sounds like he is, but I know what you want to hear, 'That's alright, I love you anyway.' It doesn't sound like that's going to happen."

"I already know that." Defensively, she added, "but you misunderstand. Severus was just a childhood friend who," her voice grew sharp, "betrayed our friendship- no more and no less. 'Love' has nothing to do with it. That would be - preposterous."

"Right. Emmet Harris is my childhood friend. But even if he never spoke to me again, you wouldn't catch me moonin' over him. Now, Annie, she was always going off with one bloke or another. I'd be on duty, an' she'd..." His voice trailed off. "Then, like a stupid git, I'd come begging her to forgive me. Now, I'd say I'm a lot better off without Annie and you're a lot better off without - what's his name? Severus? What can you expect from a bloke with a name like that anyway?"

Letha laughed. Davy poured them each a shot of whiskey; they touched their glasses together and drank it down. The he handed her the bottle. "You hold this, will you? I've got to drive you back safely."

When they got back to town, Letha bid Davy goodbye. She told him, truthfully, that she would be taking the bus home (the Knight Bus, of course), and, with a bit of trepidation, left McCullough's note with him, thinking he might make better use of it than she, at this point. She also left him an address where he could reach her; she told him to write to "N.J. Baker," at the address of her friend Anjana's parents. Mr. And Mrs. Rao were accustomed to receiving some strange mail, by Muggle standards.


	20. The Creaky Wheels of Justice

Chapter 20

Monday morning, when Letha got to work, there was a small parchment on her desk, bearing Crouch's seal. "Oh, more good news, I would bet," she thought. Sure enough, it read:

From the desk of Bartholomew Crouch

Re: Sirius Black

All work on this matter is to be discontinued immediately.

The case is closed.

What did this mean? How could he do this - again? Once more, Letha found herself marching over to Crouch's office in an angry huff, but she was stopped by George Bailey. "Whoa!" he said. "You can't go nuts on Crouch again. He's already a bit - upset - with you."

"He's upset? HE's upset?! First Malfoy, now Black? Is he out of his mind?"

"Oh no," said George, "you've got it wrong. Smile! Less work, quicker results. Black has been sentenced to life in Azkaban."

"What? Did someone give me a sleeping potion and I missed the trial?"

George laughed. "Of course not. The evidence was just so overwhelming - Crouch didn't think a trial was necessary. No one could find him innocent."

Letha stared at him in shock. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, "That's not the way it works. There's supposed to be a trial."

George patted her shoulder reassuringly, as if she were a petulant child. "You've been looking at this case. Knowing you, probably read every scrap of paper there is about him. Is there one shred of evidence that he didn't do what he's accused of?"

Letha thought about the cryptic yellow paper she'd left with Adams, but knew that didn't count. "No," she said with resignation, "but that's not the point."

"Oh yes it is, Forrester," said a curt voice. "We have enough work to do; there is no need to waste our time on the obvious," said Crouch. "And it seems that you are wasting far too much time. On this particular case, I should have had your report within a day or two - it is a simple and straightforward matter."

"But sir...."

"What has gotten into you, Forrester? You did commendable work on the Lestrange matter, but lately you find it necessary to question all my decisions. In case you've forgotten, you take orders from me."

"I know that, Mr. Crouch, but..."

He turned to George. "Bailey," he said, "do you have that assignment I told you to give her?" Crouch looked at Letha with an unpleasant smirk. "Perhaps you will find this less stressful." Then he headed to his office and shut the door behind him.

With obvious embarrassment, George handed her a roll of parchment. "What is this?" she asked. She unrolled the parchment and skimmed through it. "Cost of boarding prisoners at Azkaban? List of food supplies, expenses...." Letha turned red. "What am I now, a damned bookkeeper?"

"Whoa, Letha, don't take it personally. You just got him kind of hacked off."

"Really?" She stared at him balefully. "Well, I'm pretty hacked off myself. And I DO take it personally, believe me." With that, she stalked off to her office and slammed the door behind her. She sat at her desk, staring at the papers. Snape had been right. She had no future at the Ministry, and she wasn't sure she really cared.

That night, Letha sent an owl to Professor Dumbledore, asking if she could come and talk to him. Over the next few days, while she waited for a response, she spent her time gathering information about expenses at Azkaban. She could not afford not to work, and it served several purposes. It kept her mind occupied more usefully than brooding about her situation. In addition, she considered that the assignment might provide a good excuse for her to visit parts of the prison where she usually did not have access.

Several days later, she received an owl from Dumbledore. She opened it eagerly, but was disappointed. It only said that he looked forward to seeing her at Snape's hearing. Still, she was glad to know he expected her to be there. Her report was ready; it was filled with details that would no doubt get Severus a nice long sentence in Azkaban. Several times, she had been tempted to change it. (Why?, she wondered, because he'd been so nice to her?). But Dumbledore had told her not to soften it, so she left it alone.

On the day of the hearing, Letha was very fidgety. She had dressed in formal legal robes, but no one had told her where, or exactly even when, the hearing was to be held. Apparently, Crouch had not thought she or her report were necessary to the proceedings. As she headed down a Ministry corridor, out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a long white beard, and followed it around a bend and down several flights of stairs. The figure seemed to disappear through a door, and Letha followed, but she could not find the door. She poked at the wall, and suddenly found herself in a small room, facing Professor Dumbledore.

Although it was clear that he was very busy, he took the time to listen to her vent her frustration about working at the Ministry. He offered understanding and sympathy, but he did not offer her any alternative means of employment. What he did tell her was that the hearing would be held in the center room in the lower wing of Sheepshanks Hall, right after tea time. She was to give her report, and then he would deliver his testimony. "And Letha," he added, "when you present your findings, do not be afraid to make clear your feelings about Severus Snape."

Letha stared at him as if he had lost his mind. "WHAT???!!!"

He looked at her with raised eyebrows and, very possibly, a hint of amusement. "He was a Death Eater. I know how you feel about Death Eaters. Do not hesitate to display your revulsion and antipathy. In fact, I encourage you to do so."

Letha felt herself turning a bit red. "Oh. Certainly."

Dumbledore smiled at her gently. "Remember, it is important that I have people at the Ministry I can rely on. By the way, do you know Arthur Weasley?" Letha shook her head; she knew very few people outside of her own department. "You should get to know him - and his wife Molly - she makes a delicious bread pudding." And with that useful bit of information, he was gone.


	21. Learning to Think Like a Lawyer

Chapter 21

Dumbledore had made it clear that she had an important role in Snape's hearing. She intended to look the part. She just had time to grab a bite and head for the ladies' room, where she spent some time engaging in Transfigurations. She did not transfigure a beetle into a button or a hedgehog into a pincushion. It was her goal to transfigure a young insignificant junior assistant nobody into a Prosecutor, a figure of Lady Justice that would cause the Unrighteous to tremble in their boots. Or in lieu of that, she wanted to pass for a Grown-up. She used her wand to assemble her hair into a neat, severe little bun. She played around with various combinations of make-up until she vaguely resembled the Arithmancy teacher who'd given her the only poor grade she'd gotten at Hogwarts. She smoothed the wrinkles from her robe and (temporarily) transferred them to her face. She looked in the mirror. Maybe no one would be quaking in their boots exactly, but perhaps they would accord her some measure of respect.

Letha made her way to Sheepshanks Hall, a rather nondescript red brick building about 150 years old, which mostly held storage rooms and defunct administrative offices. She found the small, stuffy room and entered quietly. There were three or four wizards present, who were speaking among themselves. A few other people trickled in - some she recognized as Ministry functionaries, and a court reporter with his parchment and quill. Cornelius Fudge walked in, accompanied by a man who looked like an older version of Lucius Malfoy; Letha assumed he was Lucius' father, Darius. Fudge greeted everyone with a smile, and sat down at a desk on the dais at the front of the room. Crouch walked in with the brisk stride of a Very Busy Man. He nodded curtly to Fudge and sat down in a seat along the back wall of the dais. When Dumbledore walked in, all conversation ceased, but he just nodded pleasantly at everyone and sat down next to Crouch. It seemed that everyone was now present except for Snape, perhaps a dozen people in the room, all told. Letha was still uncertain where to sit. Dumbledore stood up, offered her his seat, and moved over. Crouch seemed rather taken aback that she was joining them on the dais.

Once everyone was settled, Crouch stood up and cleared his throat. He explained that those assembled would be determining the fate of one Severus Snape. A hearing was being held instead of a trial due to "unusual circumstances" that would be explained by Professor Albus Dumbledore. When he finished going through some of the technical aspects of the hearing, he asked that the prisoner be brought in.

Several moments later, Snape entered the room, accompanied by a guard, who led him to a chair in the center of the room. His eyes looked tired and empty and seemed to focus on nothing at all. On closer look, he appeared to be concentrating on a point in mid-air. Whether he was creating a mental image at that spot, or endeavouring to keep his mind as blank as possible, Letha could not say.

It was now Fudge's turn. He announced that Professor Dumbledore would be speaking on the prisoner's behalf. Dumbledore nudged her almost imperceptibly, and Letha shot out of her chair. Somehow, she felt she knew exactly what she was supposed to do. "Objection. The prosecution has not even presented its case yet."

A murmur spread through the room. Crouch leaned over to Fudge and hissed, "May I have a moment to speak to her outside?"

"Of course, Barty. Take all the time you need," responded Fudge agreeably.

Crouch motioned to her to follow him out of the room. As soon as they were out of earshot, he said irritably, "What are you up to, Forrester?"

Letha took a deep breath. She would not allow herself to lose her temper, or to be intimidated. "Sir, you asked me to write a report. I wrote the report you requested. Frankly, I think he belongs in Azkaban, don't you?

"Yes I do, but Dumbledore seems to think otherwise, and has Fudge convinced that the man is a model Wizard."

"Well, sir," she whispered confidentially, "personally, I think it would look very bad for our department if we gave in without even putting up a fight. Dumbledore may get his way, but you wouldn't want people to think we didn't try our best to keep a Death Eater in prison, would you?"

Crouch looked thoughtful. "You have a good point, Forrester. Very well, go ahead."

She forced a smile. "Thank you, sir."

They went back to their places, and Letha stood confidently before the small assemblage. She presented an entire litany of Snape's alleged crimes and misdemeanors.

"Do you admit to these crimes, Severus Snape?"

"Yes I do," he answered hollowly.

Fudge asked, "Were you a supporter of- of-"

"The Dark Lord? Yes I was, but I renounced my support. I regret any harm I may have caused." Then, it seemed to Letha that he exchanged a very brief glance with Darius Malfoy.

Fudge looked at Dumbledore. "Professor, do you have testimony to give in this matter?"

Dumbledore stood up. "I do." He described how Snape had renounced Voldemort at the height of his power and he vouched for his complete rehabilitation. When pressed for details, he gave a long and rambling response that said nothing in a great many words. As Dumbledore spoke, Snape once again glanced at Mr. Malfoy, who smirked.

When Dumbledore finished speaking and sat down, Fudge announced that it was time to consider Snape's fate. Letha again stood up. "Sir, may I present a closing argument?" Fudge looked at Dumbledore, who nodded and smiled vaguely. "Please, go right ahead, my dear."

Letha stepped forward and offered a stirring and impassioned speech, alluding to "heinous crimes" and "vile deeds," even suggesting that Dumbledore might be "deluded". Some of the wizards and witches in the room looked at her in horror as if she was standing before them, picking her nose with her wand, while others appeared to agree with her assessment. Malfoy simply sat looking rather amused.

When Letha finished, she returned to her seat, maintaining a look of indignant self-righteousness on her face. Fudge turned to the small assemblage. "How do you find?"

The witches and wizards spoke among themselves, a soft buzz filling the room. After a while, Darius Malfoy stood up and announced that a decision had been made. "In light of the overwhelming evidence against him, we find Severus Snape guilty of the crimes charged. However, in view of the testimony of Albus Dumbledore, we find that he has been rehabilitated and should be sentenced to 'time served'.

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy" said Fudge, who then briefly conferred with Crouch and Dumbledore. While the three men spoke amongst themselves, Letha again noted a conspiratorial glance pass between Snape and Malfoy. Was it possible that Dumbledore _was_ being deluded? Then again, she remembered their conversation in the Headmaster's office. If Severus had been lying about his hatred of the Malfoys, he was certainly a superb actor. Conversely, if it was Malfoy he was fooling, he had certainly given a fine performance at the hearing, solely by means of gestures and glances. Malfoy seemed quite convinced that Snape's change of allegiance was quite as feigned as his own son's.

When the three men sat down, the room became hushed. Fudge announced, "The determination of the advisory committee is accepted. Severus Snape is found guilty, but in view of mitigating circumstances, is sentenced to time served."

Letha stood up, with all appearances of putting up a protest, but Fudge held up a hand. "I have not finished" he said, looking at her. "I trust that what I have to say will satisfy everyone." He went on. "Muggle criminals who are released from prison are required to report to a 'parole officer', that is - somebody who verifies that no further crimes have been committed. This is a system I would like to see incorporated into wizard law. Here today, we are going to try an experiment - Severus Snape will be required to report to a 'parole officer' of sorts, on a regular basis - who will make sure he is staying out of trouble." The room was buzzing loudly now.

Darius Malfoy stood up. "Mr. Fudge, may I offer my services?"

Fudge cleared his throat loudly several times in embarrassment. "I'm - er - afraid, Mr. Malfoy - though your gracious offer is appreciated - we have determined (cough, cough) that it would be best to choose someone who (cough cough) has no connection with the released prisoner."

Malfoy stared at Fudge haughtily. "Just what are you implying, Cornelius?"

"(Cough cough) Er - nothing at all, nothing at all. I simply meant - well - Snape is related to you by marriage - even if distantly. There may be - an appearance of impropriety."

_What does Fudge care about that? _wondered Letha. _Must be Dumbledore's doing_, she concluded.

"Hmm," grunted Malfoy.

"I - we - felt - we should choose someone with no hint of favoritism. In fact, we have the perfect choice - someone who would love an excuse to put him back in Azkaban. Miss Faraday has clearly expressed her feelings in that regard." The buzz in the room grew extremely loud for such a small group. "Is that satisfactory, Miss Faraday?"

"Absolutely," she answered cheerfully. "Thank you for your trust, Mr. Fudge. I shall do my best to serve you well."

Malfoy regarded her sharply. She beamed at him, and he scowled back. Severus would be out of Azkaban, and had to report to her. Darius Malfoy was mad as hell, and still apparently believed Snape was on "their" side. Maybe he'd thought he'd lost a perfect opportunity to keep an eye on him. Well, he was right! Letha felt like dancing with delight.

That evening, she wondered if a single honest word had been spoken at the hearing. She herself had been totally truthful, but completely dishonest. The concept of "dishonest truthfulness" had never really occurred to her before. Like her, Malfoy had spoken the truth. So had Dumbledore, Crouch, Fudge and Severus himself. Yet, every word, every gesture, meant something different from what it seemed. Letha mused, "I can play this game too, can't I? I suppose that makes me a Grown-up!" This, she reckoned, was a good thing, though she wasn't completely certain about that.


	22. A Man Forgets A Boy Remembers

Chapter 22

One sticky, stifling August morning, Letha was awakened by the soft hoot of an owl on her bedpost. She sat up and untied a small package from the owl's leg, then patted him on the head. Inside the envelope were a letter, a picture, and another sealed envelope.

Dear Letha,

I hope you are well. I am enjoying my time at home with the baby - she is just like a doll.

The twins treat her like one too, poor thing. Have you ever seen a sweeter baby?

I'm also enclosing a letter that came to my parents' house by Muggle mail.

You must tell me - why are you "N.J. Baker"? Is that like the Baker Street Irregulars, or something?

COME AND VISIT!!!

Love, Anji

First, Letha looked at the picture of a chubby-faced baby with an angel face and a thick head of dark hair, with a little curl in a blue bow sticking up on top. The baby in the picture yawned and gurgled, making her smile. Then she picked up the envelope. The Baker Street Irregulars? She hadn't thought of that, but it seemed oddly apropos. She ripped it open.

Dear N.J. -

I might have a lead for you. Call round.

D.A.

It was certainly succinct. Perhaps Davy was just being discreet. Just as likely, that was simply his style. She composed a letter to Anjana, and made a note to herself that she really should get a present for the baby, and for that matter, for the twins as well. She sent off the letter with Anji's owl, and got packing. It had been a while since she'd done anything about Black's case, and she really had no other pressing matters pending. There was no reason to waste any time

It was too late in the morning to Apparate in the park, but on her last visit she had found a more discreet spot she could use for that purpose. This time, her arrival was a bit uncomfortable. She found herself squeezed into a cramped, dark space. Something wet and slimy dangled in her face. When she reached out her hand, she realized it was a mop.

Letha slowly opened the door of the caretaker's closet, and found herself face to face with a very startled young man. She smiled at him pleasantly and walked right past him, made her way to the stairwell and clambered up to the fifth floor. She knocked, but there was no answer. Taking out her wand, she said "Alohomora!" The door unlocked and she walked in. The flat seemed to be empty. She sat down in the kitchen, but after a few minutes, stood up and began pacing. Now what? She began wandering aimlessly through the flat, when she heard a sawing noise coming from the bedroom. She opened the door, and there on the bed found a large blanket cocoon. Letha grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled.

"Okay, Adams, rise and shine!" she shouted.

He quickly snatched the blanket back and covered himself. "I was on the night shift!" he protested. "Can't a bloke catch a few winks?"

She plopped down on the bed next to him. "If you don't get up, I will have to resort to physical force."

"Is that a promise? I think I'll take the chance."

"Are you sure? I have a weapon and I'm not afraid to use it." She pulled a heavy cast-iron frying pan from behind her back and smirked at him.

"Oh no, now I'm terrified."

"You should be, but I'll let you go - this time." She amiably bounced off the bed.

"Make some coffee, would you?" he groaned. "I'll be out in a moment."

She left the room, shut the door, and went back to the kitchen. A few moments later he joined her, wearing his uniform. As they drank their coffee, he explained that he had someone he wanted her to talk to. No, he was not on duty, but, he said, the uniform would be "useful".

As they sat talking, there was a knock at the door, and Adams answered it. She heard him let someone in. "Morning, Officer Adams," said a young man's voice, respectfully.

Adams responded, "Morning Ronald, how are you?" They came into the kitchen, and Letha recognized his companion as the boy she'd passed in the hallway. He looked at her oddly, but was apparently too intimidated to say anything about their prior encounter. Adams led him over to the sink and pointed out some sort of plumbing problem, which needed repair.

"I'll take care of it, sir", said Ronald.

"Thank you, Ronald. I'm sure I can count on you." Then Adams turned to her. "Ready?"

She nodded and followed the police officer out the door. When they were outside, Adams sighed. "It'll probably take him most of the day to try and fix it; then I'll have to do it over myself."

"So why did you bother calling him?"

He shrugged. "He likes feeling useful".

Letha smiled. "Don't we all?"

The two of them had walked a while, and came to a playground, full of young children, most of them running under the fountain. Adams waved at the kids, and one little boy came hurrying over excitedly. He looked to be 6 or 7, with curly brown hair and cherubic round cheeks. He and Adams exchanged salutes and Adams popped his cap on the boy's head. "Trevor, I'd like you to meet my friend, Miss Baker." She and the boy shook hands.

"Officer Adams is very nice."

"Yes he is," she agreed.

"You should marry him," the boy told her with great gravity. "Mum says Officer Adams needs a good woman to fatten him up an' put a smile on his face. Mum says Officer Adams needs a reason to stay home nights 'stead of gettin' pissed and mouthing off at his mates. Mum says..."

"That's quite enough, Trevor," said Adams a bit sharply, "you're embarrassing Miss Baker." His cheeks were slightly red.

"Oh Officer Adams, I do _so _want to hear what Trevor's mum has to say," Letha said sweetly, "but Officer Adams has something else he wants to ask you about, I think."

"That's exactly right," Adams added hastily. He knelt down next to the little boy. "Trevor, do you remember what you told me about the day of the big explosion? Could you tell my friend what you told me?"

Trevor looked hesitant. "Mummy says I made it up."

"Well, I understand that. But I believe you, and so will Miss Baker."

After further coaxing and a chocolate ice cream cone, Trevor told them his version of what had happened on that fateful day. He described how a short fat tatty-looking man appeared in the middle of the street, and soon after, a tall thin wild-eyed man appeared, on the other side of the street. Then he whispered, "They was wizards."

Letha stared at him. "Why do you say that?"

"I know what wizards look like!"

"You do?"

"Sure. I seen 'em before."

Letha was bewildered. "You have? Where?"

Trevor looked at her as if she were a complete idiot. "In my picture books, o'course."

"Oh, of course. Sorry I interrupted you. You were saying - about the two men - "

"They was wizards!" insisted Trevor. "They was wearing wizard dresses. Reg'lar people don't wear dresses." Trevor paused and considered, adding, "Least boys' don't. And they had magic wands. I saw it!" He paused again, looking miserable. "They made very bad magic."

"What do you mean, Trevor?"

Trevor explained. The tall man had looked "very, very angry". He pointed his wand at the short man and shouted at him. The little man was shaking like a leaf. Then the tall man said some funny words and waved his wand. Next thing, there was a loud "BOOM!" The whole street exploded

"The tall man made the street explode?"

"No, not him! The little one made the 'splosion. I saw him!"

Letha blinked in confusion and looked at Davy. "But that's impossible!" she whispered, "Black is alive. _He's_ the tall thin one. It's the other man who's dead."

Davy shrugged. "You heard the lad."

"Are you sure about that?" asked Letha. "Are you sure it wasn't the tall man?"

Trevor shook his head vigorously. "No! NO! It was the small fat wizard. And then, he disappeared."

"He did?"

"Well, people were screaming an' running and there was smoke and Mum picked me up and pulled me away, but I was watching him that done it. And he did some stuff I fink - I couldn't see on account of the smoke and all the people, but I heard a loud snap and then he just - disappeared!"

With that, Trevor stopped talking. Silently, his eyes filled with tears and he began to shake.

Letha hugged him and stroked his hair. "I'm sorry Trevor, it's okay, it's all over", she told him soothingly.

"W-why did that bad man hurt all those people?" he sobbed.

"I don't know, Trevor, I really don't know."

When Trevor stopped crying and had wiped his nose and eyes, Letha thanked him and he went back to join his friends. Letha wondered - could the child really have seen what he had just told them? Everyone _knew_ what awful things Sirius Black had done that day. All those witnesses described it exactly the same! It struck her now - the reports taken by the Ministry from the Muggle witnesses were identical. Perhaps there was something odd in that?

They began heading back, walking in silence. After a while, Adams said, "Strange how children see things adults don't. Wizards, huh!"

"Where did he get such an odd notion, I wonder?" asked Letha.

"The lad just told you what he saw. And he saw wizards, didn't he?"

Letha snorted. "Surely you don't believe that."

"Oh, but I do. And so do you, I reckon. Something else you haven't told me about, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" she asked in alarm.

He steered her to a bench and they sat down. "Let me tell you something, Miss Norma Jean. When I was a lad, there was a boy on our street who could do strange things. Impossible things. Not a big fellow, or strong, or fast was Ernie, but he could do - things. There was this big bully who would go after us younger lads, but Ernie was his favorite target. So one day, this big ox is chasing him, and next thing, Ernie's up in a tree and the hooligan is lying face down in dog poop. It was truly a beautiful sight, but I never knew how he'd done it. Then one year, Ernie's parents sent him off to boarding school. Ernie came home on holiday - he told us he was in a school for wizards. Everyone else laughed at him; said he was making it up."

"Of course he was making it up."

"I don't know. Ernie wasn't the lying sort."

"You believed him?"

"Believed him? I was so jealous I couldn't stand it!" He paused and looked at her thoughtfully. "You know what I think?"

"What's that?"

"Remember last time, in my car, you got all put out when you thought I'd insulted witches? It seemed like a queer thing at the time. But you'd brought up the subject, hadn't you? Miss Baker," he whispered, "I think you're a witch. And I assure you, that is not intended as an insult."

"I think you're daft," she retorted. "And that is."

"Really? How did you get into my flat today?"

"I jimmied the lock. Hope you don't mind."

He looked doubtful. "Is that so? When we get back you can show me how you did it."

"Will not! Trade secret."

"I bet."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached Adams' building, there was a stocky blond man standing in front of the doorway, with his face buried in a newspaper. As Letha and Davy passed, he said "'Morning". Letha froze at the sound of the familiar voice, and Davy looked at her curiously. He bid the man a good morning in return, and the man turned around. Letha was filled with trepidation as she recognized him.

In a formal manner, Letha said, "Thank you for the directions, constable."

Adams took the cue. "You're quite welcome, miss. Good luck." Instead of heading into the building, he continued down the street.


	23. A Bad Day A Worse Night

Chapter 23

When Adams was out of sight, George Bailey put down the newspaper and ambled over to Letha. His presence did not fill her with glad tidings. "What are you doing, following me?" she hissed.

"Yes, actually," he responded pleasantly, "you should be glad too. Crouch would have a fit if he knew you were here. And it's not the first time either, is it? Are you trying to lose your job? This has to do with Black, doesn't it?"

Letha sighed. "Listen George, I think it's worth another look."

"The case is closed. Move on, love. You're wasting time and energy, pissing off Crouch, and worst of all, you're mucking around with Muggles. If even one of them should suspect..."

"Oh, I'm very careful," she said hastily. "I've taken great pains not to arouse suspicion."

George looked at her doubtfully. "Are you all right? You look very pale." Of course she was pale. The thought that the Ministry might find out exactly what she was up to was very worrying. Even worse - if they found out about Adams, if they decided he should be Obliviated....

"Why have you been making trips here?"

"What makes you think I have?"

"Oh come on, you must know. Magical activity has been detected in this area several times in the past few weeks. Who else, but you?"

Letha bit her lip, considering the options.

"Listen", he said, "if you have something - some evidence - show me. If it looks like something, I'll talk to Crouch."

She considered - he had the means to track her magical activity - that was how he'd found her. Perhaps, they could track down the missing evidence the same way. "Very well. In fact, I'm even going to make you useful, possibly. But we have to wait until late tonight, I'm afraid. So, I guess - "

George grinned broadly "I guess we have the whole day to spend together! It'll be lovely!"

Letha managed a sickly smile. "Oh, a whole day together - how wonderful!" It was going to be a long day...

- - - - - - - - - - - -

After Norma Jean and the blond man were out of sight, Adams doubled back and returned to his flat. He hoped she would be all right - she had looked awfully upset to see that goofy-looking wanker. Adams went up stairs, wondering if Ronnie had flooded his apartment by now. He opened the door and went into the kitchen. Ronnie sat on a chair, staring into space.

"Ronald! Just what are you doing? Have you finished with the pipes?"

The young man looked at him vaguely. "Pipes? What pipes?"

"Ronald?" He sniffed the young man's breath - no trace of alcohol or marijuana. "Are you all right?"

"Am I? I suppose - - who are you, anyway?"

Adams looked at him in alarm. "Ronald - we have got to get you to a doctor right away. Come with me." Adams led him downstairs, and steered him over to a nearby medical clinic. After giving them some information - Ronnie was apparently incapable of giving any himself - Adams stuck around until a doctor said they would be admitting him, and Ronnie's mother had shown up. By the time Adams finally got home, it was already evening, and he first had to eat, shower, and get ready for another shift. It was awfully disturbing; just like Mick McCullough! Could this be a coincidence? Davy Adams was very skeptical about 'coincidences'.

------------------------

In the meantime, Letha had resigned herself to spending the entire day - and evening - with George Bailey. As they wandered around, she wracked her brain for innocuous topics of conversation. It was giving her one hell of a headache. She didn't dare tell him a thing, and she remembered that Adams had said she wasn't a very good liar. Then again, he was unquestionably a whole lot brighter than George Bailey.

As the hour grew late, George suggested they find someplace to eat and have a drink. He pointed out Mulligan's, but Letha persuaded him that it looked 'unappetizing' and steered him to a brand-new-looking restaurant, all gleamingly antiseptic brass and green ferns. George was amenable, and pleased as punch that they were finally 'having a date'. Letha was careful not to touch any alcohol, despite her companions rather strident urging. For a number of reasons, she wanted to be fully alert, and had certainly learned a thing or two about her susceptibility.

A short while after midnight, George and Letha left the bar and headed for the park. As they walked, a police car rolled past, and she recognized Adams and Harris. She pulled George into the shadows with her, a move that he misinterpreted. Letha quickly disabused him of that, after which he became a bit sulky. She led him to a deserted corner, and said, "Follow me". They Disapparated.

When they reappeared, they were in the basement of the police station. Letha set about hunting for the box she had seen on her first visit. It was nowhere to be found.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"A box. It was here before, but it's gone now."

"Maybe the Muggles moved it. "

"That's possible, but let's find out - shall we? Could you get out your Aurometer? I want to know if any magical activity has taken place here, other than ours, of course." She looked around again. "Here, right here", she said, pointing to the spot where the box had been. George took something out of his pocket, while Letha took gave the room another scan.

Something tickled her ankle - a spider, no doubt, or some other sort of crawly thing. She leaned down to scratch it, and her fingers encountered a rope, winding its way around and up her legs. She turned around. "George, what the..." He had his wand pointed at her. She reached for her bag to pull out her own wand, but he said "Accio!" and the bag was in his hand.

"What are you doing, George?" she asked, as calmly as she could.

"Solving a problem," he answered. By now, her legs and arms were completely bound.

"Why, Letha?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"Why couldn't you just leave it alone? All the evidence was against Black - he was already convicted."

"But he didn't do it, did he, George?"

"That's not true - it was as much his fault as it was Peter's."

_Pettigrew_, she thought. _Trevor was right._ "How do you fit in?"

George grinned. "You think you're so clever - but you didn't figure it out, did you? I figured out what _you've_ been up to."

"Really? What have I been up to?"

"Poking around where you shouldn't. I bet you went to Dumbledore, didn't you, like a good little girl? Never did much like him anyway, but you always knew how to play teacher's pet, didn't you?"

"What are you talking about?" What he said made no sense to her at all.

"Well, how did you get to be Ravenclaw Prefect, then? No one made ME Prefect, you know."

"I worked hard. You didn't. There's your answer."

Oh that must be it!" He snorted sarcastically. "I suppose that explains why the old fart was so keen on those prats Potter and Black? I told Peter I figured ol' Dumbarse wanted a piece of Black, y'know?"

"A piece...?"

"You know..." Bailey smirked and made a rude gesture with his hands.

"That is sick!" she spat. "You know it's not true!"

"Look, all I know is I wasn't one of the Golden Boys, was I? Just a fat, stupid Hufflepuff."

"The problem wasn't Hufflepuff!" she said coldly.

"You kidding me? Boring. Mediocre. Not like Slytherin. I should've been in Slytherin - I got the right blood for it! " His eyes lit up. "But I hated most of them too - thought I didn't have what it takes. The Dark Lord knew better." He smiled like the cat that ate the canary. "I was the only Death Eater from Hufflepuff."

"Something to be proud of."

He nodded, puffing out his chest.

"George, what have you done?" she asked softly.

"You should be more concerned with what I'm going to do."

"What's that, George?"

"I'm not sure yet. But you're not going to like it."

"What did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing. Always too busy, aren't you? Think you're hot stuff, do you? You're no great beauty, y'know."

"I know."

"Lots of girls better looking than you."

"I know."

"Don't even try to fix yourself up nice."

"That's true."

"Frigid cunt!"

Letha was taken aback for a moment. Then she curled up the corners of her mouth. "Now there you're wrong. But of course you'd never have reason to know that."

"Bitch!" He raised his wand, but then lowered it. "I wouldn't touch you anyway. Not after you've contaminated yourself by screwing a filthy Muggle."

"But I - you're right. I'm forever tainted."

"Damn right! But that's one Muggle less to worry about."

"What do you mean?" asked Letha, attempting to keep the rising panic out of her voice.

"I paid him a little visit. He's been taken care of, quite painlessly, you'll be glad to know. Won't remember a thing about any unfortunate- um - pillow talk. "

"What?"

"I thought you were supposed to be smart. Don't you understand? It's just like what I did to that nosy policeman. He wasn't satisfied, either, even though all the witnesses agreed! He..."

"You put a memory charm on him?"

Bailey grinned. "Oh, and _what _a memory charm it is! Silly me; I never could get it just right. It's really much more useful how I do it, you know. Serendipity, you might say. He's lucky if he can remember how to walk straight."

For several moments, Letha was speechless. It was too awful to think about. And all her fault! She felt such loathing for Bailey - at that moment she was sure she could have successfully performed a killing curse. However, she was not likely to get the chance to try.

"But why are you doing this? It's all over - Voldemort is dead."

"Well," he answered slowly, "I suppose I can tell you. It won't matter, really. I don't intend to spend the rest of my life in Azkaban. I helped Pettigrew set up the business with the Potters. And I helped him clean up the mess afterward. And no one was the wiser - hence, I've got this posh job at the Ministry and I can keep an eye on what goes on. Clever, eh?"

"You're a contemptible piece of slime and an imbecile to boot!"

"How dare you!" he huffed. "Skanky little smartarse! Bitch!" He pulled Letha's own wand out of her bag and pointed it at her. "Crucio!" She doubled over as searing pain wracked her entire body.

When the pain let up, Letha found herself curled up on the floor. He was saying something. "- be prepared when Dumbledore sends somebody looking for you." He grabbed her wrist. "Come on then; let's get out of here." She remembered nothing more.


	24. Stranger in a Strange Land

Chapter 24

Davy Adams walked his beat along Tower Road, which ran perpendicular to the High Street, near the Police Station. His shift was almost over. Things had been quiet that night, and at 2:30 a.m., the street was empty. However, he was feeling a bit anxious. He had not yet had any response to his last letter to Norma Jean. True, it was only a few days, but something bothered him about that bloke... The condition in which he'd found Ronnie did nothing to alleviate his unease.

A loud static-y noise from his walkie-talkie startled him from his thoughts. He picked it up. On the other end, he heard someone sniggering. "Adams, is that you?" came Harris' mirthful voice.

"Of course it's me, pea brain, what are you on about?"

Harris was laughing so hard he could barely talk. "I think you have a visit from your long lost brother. I believe he's stopped by on the way to a Halloween party."

"Are you daft?" he growled. Bleedin' cabbage head!"

Harris guffawed. "Now, now, sugarplum. Just get over here to the station house."

Adams sighed in exasperation. Emmet was a good man, but sometimes.... He headed back to the station house, and when he walked through the door, he saw what had Harris so amused. In front of him a tall, skinny young man with long black greasy hair stood glowering unpleasantly at a small cluster of policemen, who were making no effort to conceal their amusement. Harris spotted Adams and called out, "What did I tell you?" Admittedly, the man did rather resemble him, and was oddly dressed in a long black robe and antique-looking clothing. Adams was filled with both excitement and dread.

"Well, Harris, you are a complete idiot. Still and all, you weren't all that wrong."

"Not such an idiot then, am I, Davy?"

Adams shook his head. "Oh yes you are. A blithering idiot!" he snapped. He walked over to the fuming young man and clapped him on the shoulder. "Really, Stephen, if you're going to show up dressed like that around here and expect people not to say nothin'!" The man stared at him as if he were insane. Then he looked at Harris. "Don't you remember Stephen, my Aunt Joan's boy? The one who gives her so much grief?

Harris looked uncertain. "I- I think so."

"Stevie plays guitar, y'see, in some kind of god awful heavy metal band. He seems to think all the girls will swoon over his scrawny arse if he looks like a bleedin' vampire and makes that noise he calls music." He walked up to the scowling man and whispered, "Isn't that right, Severus?" The man stared at him, revealing only the slightest hint of surprise. "Just play along, right?"

Adams sighed and addressed his partner. "I forgot - Aunt Joan asked if she could send him to me for a bit of sorting out. If it's all right with you, Emmet, I'm going to take him up to my flat, get him cleaned up and settled in."

"Sure thing."

"Come along, Stephen. Like I told your Mum, you can use my flat - long as you don't trash it." The bewildered man followed him out of the station house, while the officers stood silently, no doubt ready to start chuckling again as soon as they were gone.

"How do you..."?

Adams interrupted him. "Wait 'til we get to my flat. Then we'll talk"

When they got to Adams' apartment, his guest looked around suspiciously. Without asking leave, he swooped around from room to room, carefully surveying the modest furnishings. Davy said nothing until the man seemed satisfied, then brought him into the kitchen. "I have to get back to work. So let's make this fast, Severus."

"Who _are_ you and how do you know who I am?"

"Constable David Adams at your service. You can call me Davy if you'd like", he added agreeably. "And you are my cousin, Stevie Adams."

"No I most certainly am not."

"Do you prefer that I should tell people your name is Severus and you're a wizard...I am right about that, aren't I?"

Snape was at a loss for words. "How - who told you - ?"

"Listen! You're here about Norma Jean, aren't you?" asked Adams.

"Who?"

"Pretty girl, early 20's, golden-brown hair, blue eyes..."

"Where is she?"

"I wish I knew. I last saw her nearly a week ago, and I've been a bit concerned. Now you've shown up, I'm worried as hell "

"And who is Norma Jean?"

"That's the name she used. She wouldn't tell me her real one."

Snape frowned. "Am I to understand that she told you my name but not hers?" He pulled his robe about him in the haughty manner 'Norma Jean' had imitated uncannily.

"She said she was afraid that she could get in trouble -"

"Is that right? But she had no problem giving out _my_ name? What an imbecile!"

"Take that back!" Adams growled softly.

Snape smirked. "Ah, what touching gallantry." His lip curled. "I can well imagine why..."

Adams interrupted. "No, I don't think you have the slightest idea." He wanted to punch the miserable bastard right in his sneering mouth, but Norma Jean would never forgive him. Women - who could make any sense of them? "Surely you must have SOME redeeming qualities. At least I hope you do, for her sake." Then he smiled wryly. "At any rate, speaking of imbeciles, what would possess you to walk into a police station in a small town, looking like Count bloody Dracula? Very discreet. Very surprising indeed that anyone should take any notice of you." To his immense satisfaction, Severus did not look happy. But then, Adams mused, he looked like a man who was rarely, if ever, happy. "Here's the situation, Severus. I'm going to lend you some of my clothing - I think it should fit you just fine. If you'll wait here, I'll be off duty soon, and maybe I can help you out a bit." He went into the bedroom and opened a bureau drawer. He pulled out a pair of hideous bright orange shorts and a T-shirt Emmet had given him as a lark that said "Kiss Me - I'm Irish". He sniggered - it was perfect! But no - it really wouldn't do, would it? He put back the ghastly ensemble and pulled out a black shirt and black jeans. Black appeared to be Severus' favorite color, and most befitting his personality. He handed the items to his "cousin" and dashed out of the flat

When his shift ended, Adams returned home and found Severus pacing restlessly, dressed in the borrowed clothing. He changed out of his uniform. When he came out of the bedroom, he said "It can't be good news if you have to come looking for her."

"I certainly haven't come visiting your charming little town by choice." Gratuitously, he added, "If your police force is any indication, the position of village idiot must be hotly contested."

"Well I do appreciate your thoughtful comments, Severus. Why are you looking for Norma Jean?"

"Letha. Her name is Letha Faraday. Not Norma Jean. At any rate, it seems that no one has seen her in days. She hasn't been at work or at home."

"You're worried, aren't you?"

Snape waved his arm noncommittally. "I am simply required to ascertain her whereabouts, or face rather bothersome consequences."

"Oh, I see. Anyways, how did you track her down here?"

Adams knew the answer before Snape said it: "I can't tell you that." Then he asked sharply, "Mr. Adams, what did you mean before about 'odd things' happening?"

Davy put up a kettle of water. "Coffee? It's instant."

Snape looked at the kettle. "Instant?"

"You add a spoon of crystals to hot water, and there it is - coffee." Adams held out the jar, and Snape picked it up, opened it and sniffed the contents. These people were fascinated with the damn Nescafe, weren't they? "Well it isn't witchcraft, of course, but..."

Snape eyed him suspiciously. "Just what did she tell you?"

"Not much, I assure you. I figured it out myself, Sherlock bloody Holmes that I am."

"How nice for you." Icily, Snape asked again, "You were saying, odd things happened? What do you mean?"

"A week ago, Norma Jean - I mean Letha- came to see me and we went out. When we got back, there was this bloke standing in front of my building - stocky fellow with curly blond hair. She looked none too delighted about it, but she went off with him. Then I went up to my flat. When I'd left, the maintenance man Ronnie, really just a lad, anyways, he was set to fix the plumbing. When I came back, he was still here, but he couldn't remember a damned thing. I mean - nothing at all - like his memory was wiped clean. I took him to the hospital, but they don't know what's wrong with him."

Snape looked at him very gravely. He said, "You're right to be concerned." He looked pensive. "May I ask, what was Miss Faraday doing here?"

"From the looks of it, she was poking around where she wasn't supposed to, on account of she thought her boss was making a half-arsed job of it. Some reason, she thought maybe I could help her."

Snape considered this answer. "What else can tell me?"

"Not much. Much later that night, I saw the two of them lurking around near the park. She didn't look too happy. I haven't seen her since then."

Snape sat back, tented his fingers in front of him, and pondered. "Where is this maintenance man? I need to see him."

"He won't be able to tell you a thing."

"On the contrary" said Snape. "He may be able to tell me a great deal"

"Ah", responded Adams appreciatively. "I'd be very interested in accompanying you..."

"No!" Snape said sharply. "This does not concern you."

"It certainly does!" he snapped. Then more mildly, he asked, "Mayn't I come with you to see Ronnie? I could be of some help. Finding him, for one thing."

Snape seemed to ponder the matter for quite some time. "It is true, I am a complete stranger and that could present certain difficulties. You may accompany me, on the condition that you follow certain rules."

"Go on..."

"No more idiotic questions. No interference with what I do. And - you must be willing to let me put a memory charm on you afterwards."

"What's that?"

"It removes certain memories from your mind."

"Oh no!"

"Really, you can't believe I can allow you to remember any of this, can you?"

Adams backed away, his brow furrowed. "Then why are you asking me, if you're planning on turning me into a damn zombie like poor Ronnie Farrell?" Nothing was worth ending up like that - nothing.

Snape shrugged. "You are correct, insofar as it is merely a formality - I will have to do it anyway. However, let me reassure you - a memory charm, properly done, does not alter the subject's memory, except as to specific target events. Whomever we are dealing with has utterly botched it up. Unfortunately, he seems to have fashioned a nasty little weapon out of his own incompetence." He shook his head. "A stupid enemy can be the most dangerous sometimes - he tends to be erratic and unpredictable, precisely because he is too obtuse to think logically. After all, I'm certain your unfortunate repair man posed a serious threat to him," he scoffed. "Do you consent to my terms?

There wasn't much choice, was there? He'd better not end up like Ronnie. Or Mick. Snape better know what he was doing. He glanced at the wizard's enigmatic black eyes. A man like that wouldn't tolerate incompetence, least of all his own. He nodded slowly.


	25. Getting Answers

Chapter 25

Adams led Snape the few blocks to the hospital, and asked at the front desk for Ronnie Farrell's room. Snape refused to take the lift, so they walked up the stairs to the fourth floor. Adams had no trouble finding the room - it was the noisiest room on the floor, barely large enough to contain all the visitors. A cluster of women stood in a huddle, offering consolation to the boy's teary-eyed mother, while their husbands sat around the edges of the bed, eyes glued to the television. Mrs. Farrell stood up and gave Adams a bear-hug, smearing waterlogged mascara on his shirtfront. He introduced her to his 'cousin Stephen', commenting that, like Ronnie, Stephen was an aspiring musician. Perhaps a discussion about his passion in life would bring the boy to his senses. She smiled at Snape hopefully, and he turned up the corners of his mouth in a grim rictus. Adams patted her hand. "Maybe you could send everyone out a moment, so's Ronnie and Stevie could have a nice chat." When she roared "Everyone out!" the room cleared immediately.

Once the crowd was gone, Snape stalked over to Adams and hissed menacingly, "If you ever ever call me 'Stevie' again, I will turn your spleen into a turnip; is that understood?" Adams responded, "Absolutely," in an oddly stilted voice, while he dug his nails into his palms. Snape removed a tiny vial of clear fluid from the pocket of the trousers he had borrowed. "Bring me a small cup of water." Adams disappeared for a moment and returned with a small paper cup, which he handed to Snape. Snape carefully decanted a single drop from the vial into the cup of water, stirring it gently. He looked at Ronnie. "You are thirsty?"

Ronnie's eyes drifted indecisively. "No. Uh-uh. Not right now."

Snape asked softly, "Are you certain?" He grimaced impatiently at the lack of response, and pulled out his wand. As Adams watched in fascination, he waved it slightly at the boy. "Aridus!"

Ronnie licked his lips and stared at the cup in Snape's hand. "May I have that, please?"

Snape handed it to him. Ronnie gulped it down and wrinkled up his face. "Yuk - it tastes peppery." He looked around with some confusion, but Snape instructed him, "Mr. Farrell, listen to me."

"Yes sir?"

"Who is the last person you saw before you came here?"

Ronnie pointed to Davy. "Officer Adams. It's him what brought me here."

"And before that?"

Ronnie looked uncertain. He looked at Adams. "There was this bloke. He come knockin' at your door, see? I must of been daft to open it."

Adams puckered his lips thoughtfully. "Was he a sort of tall, plump bloke, with curly blond hair and a ruddy face?"

"That was him!"

"Think carefully. Exactly what did he do?" Snape asked.

"Shows me a picture of this girl an' wants to know if I ever seen her. I says sure I seen her - in fact, she just left the flat."

"Then what happened?" Ronnie looked at Snape, then at Adams. I dunno."

Snape pointed to Adams. "Do you recognize him?"

"No, can't say as I do."

Snape took out the tiny vial again. He poured two drops into some more water. When Ronnie drank it, Snape asked, "What did the blond man do?"

"He points a stick at me. Not like he's going to hit me with it or nothin', just points it. I thought that was kind of queer, so I starts laughing. "What d'you thinks you're doin'?" I asks him. So now he's hacked off. He says - he says "Stupid Mudgle! My Lord would be proud of me." Then he shakes his stick at me and says "Oblo - obli - somethin' like that."

Snape did not show any reaction, but Adams noticed that his face became even paler. "Then what happened?"

"Next I remember was when you brought me here", he said, indicating Adams with his finger. He stared at them blankly, with a vaguely dejected expression. It seemed that he had nothing further to add.

After they had left the hospital, Adams asked Snape "What is a Mudgle?"

"A Muggle is a human born without magic. Someone like you."

"It's an insult, is it?"

Snape smiled at him coldly. "Not as such. No more than the term "Witch" as used by a Muggle."

Adams understood very well, and not only because of his own culpability in that regard. "Brit" wasn't exactly an insult either; was it? Of course "Brit-lover" was; the words hung in Adams' mind, smeared in red paint. He cleared away the image. "Did you find out anything useful from talking to Ronnie?"

"I know that the man we seek is a follower of the Dark Lord." It was impossible to read the expression on the wizard's face, yet it sent a shiver down Adams' back.

"Devil worship, then?"

Snape looked at him oddly. "Not precisely. Do you believe in the Devil, Mr. Adams?"

"I really don't know. People can think up enough wickedness without any outside help."

"Yes," the wizard responded softly, "but will they carry out the very worst that they can dream up? Some might have sufficient - fortitude - but most men will balk at the actual fulfillment of their darkest desires. Yet with the right persuasion, with the right leadership, it is quite remarkable what they can be motivated to - accomplish." Then he leaned forward. "No more than you, can I say if the Devil exists, but the Dark Lord is real."

"What is the difference?"

"The difference is," Snape explained, "I have seen him face-to-face." Snape crooked a finger across his lips. "Don't worry," he assured Adams coolly, "he is dead. Or gone for now, at any rate."

"Gone?" asked Adams, seeking further explanation.

Snape shrugged. "Gone but not forgotten." He reconsidered. "Gone, but not gone," he amended, cryptically.

"So", Adams suggested, "we're looking for some damn fool who's out to prove he's one tough bad-ass at night. By day, I'd reckon, he's a wussy little suck-up."

Snape understood the gist of it. "That sounds about right."

"This has to be someone she knows - someone she works with, maybe."

"That does make sense; the Ministry is full of them."

"What do you mean?"

"I am talking about internal corruption. I did warn her, after all, but she failed to heed my advice." They had by now returned to Adams' flat. "Mr. Adams, I'm afraid it's time we parted company. I can't very well take you where I am going."

"Do you think you'll find her there - where you're going?"

"I don't know. I - I rather hope not. It can only mean - something terrible."

"I thought you'd agreed to take me with you."

"No. I only meant I would take you along to see Mr. Farrell."

"That's not what I thought you meant."

"What you thought is quite beside the point. It is far too dangerous, most particularly for a Muggle. I could not justify putting you at such risk."

"I'm not defenseless - I've got my own magic wand - primitive but effective." He held up his truncheon. "If anything happens - you needn't feel responsible. You've warned me"

"No!" Snape swooped into the kitchen and Davy followed him. He began opening drawers, examining their contents. Finally, he pulled out a bent teaspoon. "You won't be needing this again, will you?" Adams shook his head. "Would you excuse me for a few moments?" It was not a question. Adams shrugged and walked out of the room.

After a short time, Snape walked back into the living room. He tossed the spoon onto the floor. "Do not touch it."

Although that seemed very odd behavior, Adams did not question the command. Snape next went into the bedroom and returned wearing his own attire. "I assure you, Mr. Adams, I am going somewhere you would not wish to find yourself. Besides, you will be far more useful right here." Then he bent down.

Just as Snape grabbed the spoon with his fingertips, almost without thinking Adams grasped his shoulder, and immediately concluded that it may not have been such a very good idea. He felt as if he were being plucked off the ground, and as the world around him became an unrecognizable blur, he was stricken with waves of nausea.

When the nausea went away, and his eyes focused, he saw before him the most bleak, desolate landscape he had ever seen, which was saying a lot for a lad from Ulster. It appeared to be a forest of death, with lifeless trees jutting out of the ground like broken spikes, and bits of animal bones and skulls scattered about the ground. It was a gloomy, shadowy place, and he had a sense that terrible things had happened there. Yet, as repugnant as he found the place, it was far worse for his companion, whose face revealed utter revulsion. Snape glowered at him darkly and hissed, "What did I tell you? What made me think you capable of comprehending the simplest instructions? This is no place for a Muggle!"

Davy responded softly, appeasingly, "this is no place for a Wizard, either, Severus. But here we are, all the same. Do what you have to do, and don't worry about me."

"I wasn't planning on it!" Snape responded icily. He drew his wand, held it out in front of him, and headed off into the jagged landscape. Adams followed close behind. He heard no sign of life - no bird-song, no cricket-chirp, not a ripple of water, nor any leaf trembling in a breeze. Not a leaf to be seen, in fact; not the faintest quiver of a breeze, in fact. They continued through this eerie terrain, peering about carefully. After some time, Snape stopped and sniffed the air, his long nostrils quivering.

It was clear that Snape was very familiar with this place. Adams wondered what had brought him here in the past - and suspected the reason was one he would not care to discuss. He led the way to a particularly dark thicket of dead trees, and as they moved forward, they were assailed with the most vile stench imaginable. Adams raised his hand to his nose. At that moment, a loud angry buzz broke the yawning silence, and he waved away the source of the sound.

"Stop!" cautioned Snape. "Ornothixies are attracted to movement."

Adams turned his head and saw a creature the size of a hummingbird hovering in the air. The thing did not look like a hummingbird, however. It had a wasp-like body, leathery grey wings and when it opened its mouth, he saw two rows of razor-sharp barbed teeth.

"Don't let it bite you!"

"Well that's a useful bit of advice," responded Adams. "Can't you get rid of it?"

"I did warn you not to come." Snape sighed. "Oh very well." He blasted the onithixus with his wand. "Don't expect my help next time."

"Right."

"And come, this way!" whispered Snape tensely, and they hurried forward as quietly as possible. They arrived at the edge of a chasm, which seemed to be the source of the putrid odor. He began to retch, and Snape waved his wand. "Fetor nullum!" he pronounced, and they could again take a breath without gagging. Snape leaned over the edge of the gorge, and froze, mouth agape. Adams stepped alongside, and looked in with trepidation. He let out a gasp. At the bottom lay a young woman pallid and lifeless, legs and arms bound, floating in several inches of filthy water.


	26. A family reunion, of sorts

Snape stood silently, staring down into the chasm. Then he got down on his hands and knees and began examining and poking at its walls, for several minutes. Adams had thought that perhaps it would be a relatively simple task to extract her from the pit with the aid of magic, but it appeared that far more than a mere wave of a wand would be required. He did not disturb the preoccupied wizard, but meanwhile busied himself inspecting the steep, smooth sides of the hole - he could see no way to get her out non-magically without the use of a hoist or some other heavy machinery, of which, of course, none was immediately available. He tried in vain to come up with some practical solution, but had no brilliant ideas. Whether or not she might be alive, he dared not speculate.

Finally, Snape stood up again and took out his wand. He looked at Adams, and commanded, "Do what you can to conceal yourself in that thicket by that last large boulder we passed. You must stay away from this area." Adams did as he was told, kneeling in the center of a patch of brownish-orange nettles. It was not a particularly comfortable spot, but he could watch what happened from between the vines. He saw Snape begin slowly circling the pit, muttering under his breath. Every so often, he would stop and look down, then make some quick movements with the wand, or he would raise his voice, uttering words Adams could not comprehend. Sometimes, this would cause a cloud of dark green smoke to rise from the pit, with a loud hiss. Sometimes he heard voices - terrified voices, pleading voices, screams of pain - and semi-defined shadows would come wafting from the pit - the writhing, agonized figures that emerged reminded him of the damned beings in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. As the images appeared, Snape drew away from them, but his face remained frozen in an impassive mask.

He had slowly circled the pit several times, when one of the shadow-people did something unusual. It rose from the pit, but instead of continuing aloft, it drifted over to Snape and circled his feet, slowly winding its way in an upward spiral around his body. Initially, Snape essayed to ignore it, though his face became more strained and his muscles tensed. The shadow billowed up in front of him and took on a more defined shape, that of a heavyset man with thick features, a hawk-like nose, and an expression of intense hatred. As Snape unavoidably stared into the face floating before him, its mouth formed an unpleasant smile. In a harsh, mocking tone it said, "What brings you here, boy? Have you come to pay your respects?"

Snape did not respond, but seemed quite unnerved.

The shadow-man spoke again. "That's not it, is it?" Let me get a better look at the object of your desire." With that, the shadow stretched itself into a greenish-gray smoky trail and headed back into the pit, reappearing after a few moments.

The shadow again formed itself into a human shape in front of Snape. It grinned hideously. "I've met her before, haven't I? She was a cute little thing, as I recall. But now, there's really no point wasting your time on her."

Snape was having diminishing success at keeping his voice and visage neutral. Yet, his eyes still revealed nothing, as he asked "She is...?"

"Food for the worms?" cackled the shadow-man. "Why don't you find out?" The shadow had begun to circle Snape slowly, in narrowing circles, almost touching him. Snape shrank from it, and Adams noticed that the shadow seemed to be drawing him closer to the edge of the pit. Suddenly the face became very angry. "You lied to me, boy."

"What are you talking about?" Snape spat back.

"She's wearing that necklace - the one the old crone gave you. I told you to give it to me, but you said you'd lost it. I knew you were lying."

"What of it?"

"What of it?" the shadow said mockingly. "What of it?" it repeated. "If you'd done as you were told, I would still be alive. But you were always an ornery, disobedient, miserable child."

Imagine, thought Adams, growing up with a father like that. He decided that, first chance he had, he ought to pay a visit to his own good, kind Da.

The shadow cackled hoarsely. "How pathetic! You had to bribe the little tart, did you?"

Snape turned bright red. He began to take deep, even breaths, endeavoring to control his temper, and withdrew from a pocket a small vial of silver powder. As he opened it, his hand shook so, that he nearly dropped it, but he caught it before much of the powder spilled out. He sprinkled a tiny amount on the tip of his wand, from which began to issue deep red flames. As he raised his wand, the figure again assumed a more mercurial form and resumed circling Snape, continuing to draw him towards the pit. "My dear father," taunted Snape, "nothing would have saved you."

The shadow began to resume a semi-human shape. "You made sure of that, didn't you? It was your duty to stand by me, and you failed, you sniveling coward - you chose to stand by Malfoy. Well, my boy, you will pay for that."

Snape began to stretch out his arm to reach his father with the wand - one more step and he would fall into the pit. Adams brought two fingers to his mouth and let out a loud, piercing whistle. Startled, Snape looked up, then down, and he quickly stepped backwards, away from the abyss. In a rage, the shadow spun around and began heading in Adams' direction. Snape ran after it, and managed to catch it with the tip of the red flames. The shadow dissipated in all directions, and Snape pushed Adams out of the way. Once the last vestiges had vanished, Snape leaned heavily against a tree stump, looking utterly drained

Adams was full of questions, but he kept them to himself. Nevertheless, once he'd regained his composure, Snape offered an explanation.

"That, Mr. Adams, was a shade - something less than a ghost, but more than a wraith." This information was interesting, though it did little to clarify matters. He must have looked perplexed, because Snape rolled his eyes impatiently. "Despite Muggle folklore, ghosts are generally quite harmless. Shades, however, tend to be malignant creatures, and the poison of their spirits is expressed in a tangibly toxic manner. It is imperative that you not allow any portion of a shade to touch you - the results would be quite painful, and possibly lethal. This one was particularly virulent." He did not comment on the fact that 'this one' was his own father. "It will be back, unfortunately, but I hope - I expect - that we will be gone before then. I do not anticipate any more such - disagreeable events, but you had better remain out of sight" Adams returned to his place amongst the nettles, and Snape headed back to the edge of the pit. He resumed his task, continuing until nothing further issued forth at the sound of his incantations.


	27. What seems so far from you is most your ...

The first step had been accomplished. He could not have risked interference by an embittered shade or a disgruntled wraith, which, out of pure spite, might have frustrated any recovery efforts. It did seem that he had cleared out all the non-living inhabitants of the pit. Except one, he thought unhappily. At least she was not among the wretched spirits he had temporarily ousted with his incantations. He had dreaded that possibility. And because she was not among them, it did leave open the possibility that she was still alive, even though Balthazar had suggested otherwise. It seemed doubtful, but he had to hope. After all, if she is dead, he thought, he would have to explain to Dumbledore how he had allowed this to occur.

So many tortured souls! It pained him to think he had had a part in it - even if some of them only got what they deserved. No, no - that would not do. Professor Dumbledore had helped him understand that - a lesson more important than any he'd learned in his classes. Still, even Dumbledore could not convince him that, in his father's case, there were any mitigating factors.

Balthazar Snape had been, and clearly still was, a loathsome creature. He had earned his fate; he had been foolish enough to try to swindle Lucius Malfoy. Severus had watched his father die - it had brought him - not pleasure, but a grim solace and a sense of relief. Yet, he had awoken the next day without any real sense that a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. In fact, it had then and still did seem that Balthazar's meaty hand lay heavily upon his shoulder, with its perpetual threat of a cruel and unexpected blow. Nevertheless, the actual encounter with his father had been unexpected; the experience had left him feeling ineffably melancholy and fatigued.

He tried to shake off his despondency and considered the task before him. It was tempting to try a simple levitating charm, but the pit was very deep. He would have limited control at that distance. If she is still alive, he considered, it might be dangerous. He would have to climb into the pit and get closer to her to be sure of avoiding further injury.

He had never been particularly talented at conjuring, perhaps because it was not quantifiable. With most magical processes - and potion-making in particular, of course - the proper input produced a particular desired output. Conjuring was so unpredictable. As a result, he had little respect for it as a magical art - it had always seemed to him to be more of a parlor trick than a real skill, but it did come in handy now and then. And, it was a skill that would be useful right now, he thought, as he formed the image of a ladder in his mind and then proceeded to conjure it, hoping for the best. He would have liked to have summoned forth something solid and sturdy. Instead, what he ended up with was quite rudimentary, a bit flimsy, and as he shook the top rung, it seemed rather rickety. However, it would have to do.

He did not relish the thought of climbing down and then up the ladder, especially as he knew he would have Letha with him on the way back up. A bit regretfully, he realized he would have been better off wearing the Muggle's clothing for this particular venture. He removed his wand and a few vials from his pockets, and then removed his robe. "Adams!" he called out, and the man immediately dashed over. He warily handed him his robe, with a threatening scowl. "Be very careful, and do NOT let anything fall out!" He was only slightly mollified by the great care and respect with which the Muggle handled it. Then he sighed with resignation and stepped onto the ladder.

As he descended into the pit, he clung tightly to the side bars, and carefully avoided the temptation to glance downward. He knew he'd reached bottom when he felt his boot squelch in the muck. Reluctantly, he turned around, and peered at the woman lying pale and still on the floor of the pit. He conjured a stretcher, picked her up and carefully laid her upon it. He removed the binding ropes and brushed a small insect from the corner of her eye. With trepidation, he grasped her wrist. He felt nothing.

It was his fault - why had he waited so long to come looking for her?

No, he changed his mind, it was her fault - why had she gone off where she didn't belong, and told no one? It was very reckless, very foolish. Now he would have to face Dumbledore. I really was very unfair. Why did she go and get herself killed? What had she been thinking?

_Stop it!_ he told himself. _Calm down; try again_. Concentrating on the tiny gold orb dangling from her neck chain, using it as a focal point, he relaxed a bit, took a deep breath and took her wrist, more gently this time, resting his fingertips lightly upon it. This time, to his relief, he felt a weak, thready pulse.

He opened a vial of vermilion liquid, allowed a few drops to fall on her lips, and her color improved slightly. Then he grabbed the ladder with his left hand, pointing his wand at the stretcher with his right. "Wingardium leviosa!" The stretcher began to rise, and he guided it carefully to keep it level. Slowly, gingerly, he began to ascend the ladder, step by step, concentrating on raising the stretcher steadily and evenly. When he had climbed about a third of the way up, he heard an incongruously cheerful voice above his head.

"Severus Snape, of all people? I can scarcely believe it!" One would think he had run into an old schoolmate in the middle of Diagon Alley. He did not exactly recognize the voice, but it did sound vaguely familiar. He glanced up momentarily, and saw a chubby face grinning down at him, topped with bouncy yellow curls. The imbecile's friendly chattiness was enough to drive him into a rage, but his task required concentration. He took deep, regular breaths to keep himself calm.

"I heard she tried to convince Fudge to give you to the Dementors. And I know she absolutely despises you - she told me herself. So the question is, what are you up to?"

He did not bother to respond

"Maybe you've come to rescue your lady love?"

"Perhaps," he responded between clenched teeth. Anything to shut him up.

The man sniggered. "Oh come now Snape, honestly, you've given me my laugh for the day! Dumbledore's offered you a deal to keep you out of Azkaban, didn't he? He's sent you here to rescue poor little Letha, hasn't he?"

He said nothing. This idiot did seem to have stumbled along a series of erroneous assumptions, and yet end up somewhere in the general vicinity of the correct conclusion.

"I'm right, aren't I? You know, you certainly had old Malfoy fooled! And Lucius - he trusts you, y'know. He'll have a fit, that George Bailey smoked you out, when he couldn't - but he'll pay well, I'm sure of that!"

George Bailey - Snape tried to recall who he was. He remembered him slightly from school - he had been one of those unremarkable students who made their way through without particularly distinction, for good or for bad. He never recalled seeing him at the Circle, but he did remember the name - now that he considered. It was Bailey who'd interviewed Malfoy after Voldemort's death. Lucius had mentioned it - what had he said? Snape continued ascending the ladder, and Bailey obligingly climbed up several rungs. Yes - Lucius had said he'd asked for Bailey especially, that he was a credit to the Ministry - he'd though Lucius was being facetious.

To his dismay, Bailey began prattling again. "You're being very careful, I see - I guess that means she's still alive. Well that's good - you have to keep your mind - and your wand - on your task, then. Pay no attention to me." Snape felt a streak of pain dart through his body as Bailey shot a hex at him. He struggled to keep his balance. "Tell me Snape, what am I supposed to do? I don't really want to kill anybody, but I'm afraid of what'll happen if I let you get out of this hole alive. I will not go to Azkaban."

Concentrating on his task, Snape simply responded "Priori Incantatem - the truth will be revealed".

"No, actually, that's not a problem, you see. I've been using her wand all along, so nothing can be traced to me by the Ministry. Try again."

In a low, dangerous voice, Snape responded, "As you wish, Mr. Bailey, you will not go to Azkaban. I am going to kill you."

Bailey responded agreeably, "See, that's just what I'm worried about. The easiest thing is just to kill you both now. But if I do, how will I prove all of this to Malfoy? After all, he wouldn't dare come back here these days - can't say I blame him. And like I said, he trusts you, so he has to be made AWARE of what you're up to, or he might not believe me. Now, that IS a little problem."

While Bailey yammered on, Snape pulled the stretcher close to him. He decided he might be able to hold on to it, and aim his wand at Bailey at the same time. However, he found it too heavy and cumbersome to balance with one hand, and he was fairly certain both he and Letha would fall if he took his other hand off the ladder. Apparently Bailey noticed he was up to something

"Oh no you don't!" Bailey did a Summoning Charm, and several moments later, Snape was surrounded by the sound of angry buzzing. Dozens of ornithixies swarmed around him, attacking viciously. Ornithixies are attracted to moving limbs, and they went after his wand arm, piercing the flesh over and over with barbed teeth. The blood from the wounds drew more of the nasty creatures and they became even more ferocious in their attacks. They snapped at his face, and he had to close his eyes to keep them from blinding him altogether. The stretcher began to wobble precipitously as he tried to brush them away. He reached his arm around the underside of the stretcher and waved his wand in the general direction of the ornithixies, uttering a charm that steered some of them up in Bailey's direction. Bailey tried to shoo them away. They were persistent, however, and he climbed higher up the ladder to avoid them.

Suddenly, there was a loud "CRACK!" and Snape looked up - the feet above him were sliding jerkily up and out of the pit. A few moments later, Adams stepped onto the ladder, descending as far as he could and then perching at a spot just above Snape's head. Crouching down, Adams braced himself against the wall with his back and legs, and held out his arms, into which Snape carefully guided the stretcher. That freed him to dispatch the little blighters, which he did by blasting them into the opposite wall with forceful blows of his wand. That done, the two men guided the stretcher out of the hole.

Snape climbed out and aimed his wand at Bailey, tying him up in thick black ropes, far more tightly than absolutely necessary. He then used his wand to drag the bound man towards the pit.

Adams spoke quietly. "Maybe that's not such a good idea, Severus. You don't want to kill him, do you?"

Was the Muggle out of his mind? "And why not?" he hissed.

"You don't want to be a murderer, do you? You'll regret it, I reckon."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" he sneered.

"No, of course not. If that's what you decide to do, I'll never say a word to anyone. But I don't think you want that on your conscience."

He looked at Adams with an expression of utter astonishment, and repeated slowly "On my conscience? You must be joking!" Weren't Muggle policemen famous for shooting criminals? Wasn't that part of their job? That was the vague impression he had, at least. And if anyone deserved to be shot, or thrown into a hole on his head (as the case may be) - Bailey did. He expelled a sort of forced, unconvincing laugh. "Oh, very well!" I know I'm going to regret this, he thought.

They headed back, Snape with his wand leading along Letha on the stretcher, and Bailey, bound and gagged, dragging along the ground after her. When they reached their arrival point, Snape set Bailey down next to Letha, and sat down between their heads. Adams sat across from him, and at Snape's instruction, placed each of his hands on one of their feet. Snape picked up the bent spoon, and several queasy moments later, they were gone.

Note: The title of this chapter is from Rainer Maria Rilke -   
The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: XXIII

Call to me to the one among your moments   
that stands against you, ineluctably:   
intimate as a dog's imploring glance   
but, again, forever, turned away

when you think you've captured it at last.   
What seems so far from you is most your own.   
We are already free, and were dismissed   
where we thought we soon would be at home.

Anxious, we keep longing for a foothold-   
we, at times too young for what is old and too old   
for what has never been;

doing justice only where we praise,   
because we are the branch, the iron blade,   
and sweet danger, ripening from within.

(I've been listening to Nick Cave's Lyre of Orpheus, and as I set about posting this,   
the Orpheus reference seemed so apropos. And this poem, even more so.)


	28. Poisons, both temporary and permanent

Back in Adams' flat, they moved Letha onto the couch. Snape knelt down next to her, and proceeded to evaluate her condition. "I will need some medical supplies". He tried to stand up, but seemed a bit unsteady. Blood was dripping in slender rivulets down his arm.

"You won't be much help to her like that," said Adams. "We'd better take care of those bites." He went to the kitchen and brought back some wet towels and bandages.

"Thank you, Mr. Adams, but it will require something more. These bites are poisonous," said Snape. "They are rarely fatal, but they can cause dizziness, confusion, and loss of equilibrium." That was readily apparent, as he collapsed onto the couch, next to Letha. He then began searching haphazardly through his pockets, appearing to be a bit disoriented. "I do not have a specific antidote with me, but I have a general anti-venom here - somewhere - - ah, here it is." With uncharacteristic nonchalance, he took a swig from the bottle. His head fell back against the couch cushion. "Forgive me; I need a moment to collect my thoughts - just a moment to..." and his eyes were shut.

Adams shook his head in amazement as he considered the three unconscious forms lying in his living room - odd enough under any circumstances, but these individuals happened to be two wizards and a witch. And no normal people (or practically none - surely there must be others beside him) even knew they existed. _Normal people?_ He chided himself. _Bit presumptuous, that._

He was startled from his thoughts by the loud jangle of the telephone, but it did not awaken any of his impromptu house-guests. He picked up the phone - it was Emmet Harris. No, he assured him, his 'cousin' had NOT trashed his flat; no, he did not care to join him at Mulligan's for a drink; no he did not need any assistance. He most definitely did not need any visitors at the moment. 'Well', he imagined explaining, 'they got a bit drunk and rowdy, y'see; this bloke here had to be restrained'.

He picked up the alcohol and bandages. While Snape slept, Adams cleaned and dressed the worst of the bites. As he checked for any bleeding wounds he might have missed, he noted a faded, rather ugly black tattoo on Snape's left forearm. He doubted he would ask what it meant - Snape would probably put some kind of curse on him for asking "idiotic questions". He was one temperamental character, but Adams felt a certain sympathy for him - especially after seeing what sort of father he'd had to put up with Like Aunt Joan's boys, Davy's real cousins. Their father, Uncle Aidan, might have been Da's brother, but Aidan and Sean Adams couldn't have been less alike. Aidan had a violent temper, especially when he'd been drinking, which was most of the time. When things started to get really bad back home, and one of Davy's friends had been shot while walking to school, Sean Adams and Dan Harris, Emmet's father, had decided it was time to leave. A couple of their old mates had found decent work as cops in a small town in the English countryside. Sean and Dan hated the idea, but if it meant not having to fear for their children's lives every time they went off to school, maybe it was for the best. When word got out what they were considering, the real trouble started. Uncle Aidan had gone wild. He'd called his brother a traitor and said he was "as good as dead'. He'd thrown rocks through their windows, spray-painted their walls, and rung up their house with 'anonymous' death threats. Even worse, he'd filled young Stephen's head with hateful thoughts. As a tiny lad, Stevie had practically worshipped his cousin Davy; now he'd as soon kill him as talk to him. When Aunt Joan had told Aidan to stop, to leave everyone alone, he beat her black and blue and left, eventually getting himself jailed for setting off a bomb that killed a cop - and a young woman and her baby.

He finished bandaging Snape's wounds. After checking that Bailey was still well-secured, he picked up Letha and carried her to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed and went to let in a bath.

Snape woke with a start, and looked around in confusion. When his eyes focused on Bailey, lying on the floor, he remembered what had happened and where he was. He stood up, still feeling a bit lightheaded. When he opened the door to the bedroom, he was appalled - Letha lay unconscious on the bed, and the Muggle was stripping off her clothing. "What do you think you are doing?!" he shouted indignantly. A florid hue suffused his pale face.

Adams looked up at him mildly. "I'm letting in a bath. Can't leave her in these filthy wet clothes." He looked down again and smiled to himself. "Of course, Severus, if you prefer, I'll keep an eye on Mr. Bailey; and you can look after her." He began walking away from the bedside.

Snape looked at him in alarm. "Adams - wait - I - you -", but he had already left the room.

Adams was right - she couldn't be left like this. Gingerly, Snape slid Letha's arms out of the filthy sleeves, and peeled the rest of the ruined clothing from her body. When she was completely undressed, he picked her up and carried her into the bathroom, lowering her into the water. He meticulously picked out bits of muck and sludge and dried blood from her hair, thinking that it was somewhat like extracting flobberworm larvae from their slimy nests, an activity that, oddly enough, he found rather soothing. He ran a soapy washcloth over her body, conscientiously removing every remnant of filth. As he slid the cloth around the curve of her cheek, the curve of her neck, the curve of her breast, following the path of the washcloth with his eyes, he concluded that, actually, it was nothing like extracting flobberworm larvae. Not the least bit. When he had finished cleaning her, he put aside the washcloth and could not resist running his fingers across the shiny, smooth, pale skin of her belly. This would not do. Reluctantly he drew his hand away. He lifted her out of the water, wrapped her gently in a large towel and carried her back to the bed.

-------------------------------------

She did not know how much longer she could hold her breath. The ship had capsized in the storm, and every time she thought she'd reached the surface, another crashing wave would push her under. She kept swimming and swimming, and her arms were growing tired, but she still hadn't reached the surface. Perhaps it would be easier to give in and simply let the sea take her. But no, she thought, she knew, she was almost there; she felt cold air against her fingertips; she was almost there, almost there....a sharp rush of air entered her lungs. Gasping for air had never seemed to be such a wonderful thing. She lay back, exhausted, eyes closed, allowing herself to be inundated with sensory input from all around. She was not alone. Someone was gently touching her face, was talking to her, but she could not really understand the words. She opened her eyes. A man with black eyes and was watching her closely.

"You're back!" He smiled cautiously.

She tried to answer, but her throat was dry, so she simply nodded.

He continued to speak spoke to her softly, gently. She had some difficulty following what he was saying, but she smiled up at him. He seemed so kind, so earnest, so deeply concerned. What a shame she would have to tell him - -

"Who are you?"

He took her hands in his. "Not what you expected is it? I've been horrible, haven't I? You must think I'm a complete stranger."

She shook her head. "You _are_ a complete stranger." He looked at her uncertainly. "I mean - I'm sorry, but I don't know who you are."

His face darkened and he frowned at her. With great agitation, he stood up and darted out of the room. She thought that he must be very angry that she could not recognize him. Now, she supposed, he didn't like her anymore. She started to cry.


	29. Explanations

Davy Adams sat on his living room couch. He glared at the contemptible creature who lay bound and gagged at his feet, and suppressed an urge to bring his truncheon down on the man's head again. It occurred to him that a nice tall glass of whiskey would be quite agreeable, but he suppressed that urge as well.

The bedroom door flew open abruptly and Snape charged into the living room in an absolute rage. He grabbed Bailey by the collar and pulled him upwards, shaking him violently. "Wake up! Wake up, you worthless hag-spawn!" He removed the gag from the man's mouth.

Bailey began to moan and groan, further enraging Snape, who slammed Bailey's head against the floor.

"Severus!" called Adams in alarm. "What's the matter?"

Snape let go of Bailey and ran into the kitchen. Adams followed him and found Snape sitting with his face buried in his hands. After several silent moments he looked up. There were dark circles under his eyes. "She doesn't recognize me. Has no idea who I am. No idea."

"Memory charm?" As if the question needed asking.

"Obviously," Snape responded dully.

Adams did not know what to say. He was sorry he had persuaded Snape to spare Bailey's life. The man had ruined at least three lives that he knew of, and seemed to have no remorse about it.

He knew what had happened to Mick McCullough and Ronnie Farrell, but, he thought, maybe the effect was different on a witch. "Is there any chance she still has some memory?"

"I doubt it. I have known her since we were children; since she doesn't know me, even her long-term memory has been Obliviated." Snape slammed his hand on the table. "What could he possibly have gained from that? Or maybe he's just too damned stupid to know how to properly focus a memory charm and too irresponsible to care. That is the worst part."

"Stupidity?"

"No." Snape leaned forward, as if he were sharing an important secret. "Irresponsibility. If your actions will have horrific consequences - then you'd better have a good reason for them, a damned good reason." His mouth twisted unpleasantly. "I do not think personal dislike is a valid reason for murder, do you?"

Adams could not imagine what 'personal dislike' had to do with anything, but Snape seemed very agitated.

"No, of course not. You don't kill somebody because you don't like him."

"Exactly right! That is my point!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Shouldn't it be obvious?"

"Right, sure, well...." He cleared his throat. "Letha told me you were childhood friends."

"That is true. She was probably my only real friend, and do you know how I thanked her, Mr. Adams? I never spoke a single word to her at school; in fact, I avoided her at all times."

"Why? She wasn't part of your social crowd? Or you were just a jerk?"

Snape grimaced, but then his shoulders sank. He looked miserable. "A bit of both, I suppose. But I swear, I thought I was protecting her. My 'social circle'", he sneered, "included some rather unsavory characters."

"Why didn't you just avoid _them_?"

He shook his head. "That would have been impossible. You have no idea...."

Adams looked at him with disgust. "Of course I have an idea. Snape. I'm a cop. How often have I heard the same story -"

"Not exactly." Snape shook a finger at him. "I assure you, you have never run into anyone quite like Lucius Malfoy."

"That the Dark Lord you told me about?"

"No, that was not Malfoy. Malfoy is not a powerful wizard; he harbors no great mastery of the magical arts. What he has is money, name, connections, and no scruples."

Adams was clearly not impressed.

"Yes I know, I could be describing any one of a great many people, Wizard or Muggle. But Malfoy has something else. He drank of a potion that allows him to have an effect on people - the creator of the accursed formula put it best; it gives him the power to "bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses."

Nonsense, thought Adams. "Only if you allow him. Only if you're willing to be controlled."

Snape was silent for several moments. "Perhaps that is true. But then I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Adams, that our dear Miss Faraday was not immune."

Adams frowned. "Is that why you couldn't forgive her? Whatever this Malfoy persuaded her to do, she's been waiting a long time for you to forgive her. Why? Did he persuade her to commit some terrible crime?"

Snape shifted uncomfortably. "Not really. Of course not. Letha wouldn't do that."

"Maybe you were just afraid she wouldn't forgive _you_?"

"Oh, that is rubbish! Clearly you do not understand."

"You're right about that. But that's your problem to deal with, isn't it?"

"There is a more concrete problem to deal with, I'm afraid. Thanks to you, I didn't leave Bailey to die."

Adams nearly choked. "I'm sorry I dissuaded you from murder, but you'll admit, it wasn't hard to do. Give yourself some credit, Snape - having a conscience is nothin' to be ashamed of."

"You know what he's done. He deserved to die, wouldn't you say?" Adams had the distinct impression that Snape was looking to him for approval. The problem was, he really wasn't sure himself.

"Well, he certainly deserves punishment, anyways. Don't you people have prisons? Er - some kind of magical prisons?"

"Oh yes. And I assure you, we have a prison that would be a fitting punishment indeed. But we have a bit of a problem, haven't we?"

"What do you mean?"

"Bailey works at the Ministry, supposedly defending the world from those who have done evil things" "Such as myself", he added, nodding in mock acknowledgment. "Miss Faraday is incapacitated from explaining what he has done to her. Who will be sent to prison do you suppose, a congenial but dim-witted Ministry bureaucrat with no known criminal history, or a confessed Death Eater, trusted by no one and generally detested?" He emitted a sort of dispirited laugh.

"I suppose they'd put no credence in what I have to say...."

"You'd suppose correctly. I could have - put some sort of spell on you, after all."

"Right. We have to assume I'm just a stupid Muggle - too thick-headed to think for myself."

"You catch on quickly, for a thick-headed Muggle. And even if, by some chance, your testimony was given due consideration, and the truth were known, there would be a different concern...."

Adams lifted his head. "I thought I heard something. Is Letha all right?" Snape stood up too, and they both hurried into the living room. Letha knelt on the ground, wrapped in a towel, trying to untie Bailey's feet. She looked up, startled, as they ran in.

Snape reached out his hand to her. "Come here, Letha."

"I will not!" she shouted defiantly. "Nobody should be treated that way! Did YOU tie him up?" She turned her accusing stare to Adams. "Or you? This is inexcusable!"

"You heard her, Snape, you'd better untie me." Bailey already had one free hand, and was working on the other. "You know you're in serious trouble - between Azkaban & Lucius Malfoy - I'm not sure which I'd be more worried about. Perhaps we can work something out to our mutual benefit."

Without bothering to respond, Snape pulled out his wand. "Ensnarum agutis!" Thorny vines blossomed all over Bailey's body, twisting and winding their way around him. Bailey writhed in pain and when he began screaming, Adams nonchalantly shoved a large stale tea biscuit in his mouth to shut him up.

Letha clutched at the vines, tearing her fingers on the thorns. "Stop it! Stop it!" she shouted. Adams pulled her away, but she kicked him in the groin and ran off into the bedroom. When she returned, several moments later, she was holding her wand pointed at Snape. "One move, and I swear I'll - I'll - "

"What, Letha?' he asked softly. "What will you do?"

She shook her head furiously. "I don't know! I don't remember what to do with this damn thing!" She threw it down in frustration.

"This might help." He handed her a small glass of liquid with a greenish tint. She examined it suspiciously, shrugged and drank it. An expression of awareness returned to her eyes. "Severus?" she asked quizzically. She looked around, bemused. "Davy? You're alright then?" He nodded. "Thank goodness. Bailey told me he'd taken away your memory."

"No, he - he got the wrong person."

She looked at Bailey in disgust. "You really are troll-dung! Ruining people's lives like that! " Adams and Snape exchanged doleful glances, and Letha looked from one to the other of them apprehensively. "Now I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation for all of this? What am I doing standing here in nothing but a towel, gabbing with the two of you, and our good mate Georgie trussed up like a Christmas turkey?"

Both men avoided her eyes. "Severus, why can't I remember how I got here?" Her eyes grew wide with alarm as she ran her tongue over her lip. "Is that pepperwort I taste?"

"It is."

"Now as I recall, that's used to treat hiccoughs or - it might be part of - isn't that an ingredient in a memory charm antidote?"

"Yes," he answered softly. She stood silently, absorbing the implications. Finally, she asked, matter-of-factly, "Will the antidote last long?"

"No, I'm sorry, Letha, it will not. We haven't much time at all before it wears off. You have to tell me what happened."

"No!" she said firmly.

"No?"

"No. I'm not interested in talking. Kiss me!" she ordered.

"Now?!?" he asked. "But there's no time to waste."

"Oh, you're right about that. Please kiss me, Severus - now, while I can recognize you. I mean, you don't have to, of course. Only if you want to. NOT if you think it's a waste of time." Her cheeks reddened.

They stood gaping at each other with mutual embarrassment. Finally, he stepped forward resolutely, and whispered something in her ear that made her smile. With a conscious effort, Adams focused his attention on Bailey, and caught him staring in wide-eyed astonishment. Adams shoved him with his foot, just hard enough to elicit a groan of pain. "Mind your own business", he growled.

Snape and Letha disappeared into the bedroom.

Davy Adams smiled wryly. "Go on", he muttered, "pay no attention to _my_ feelings."


	30. No love without pain, no happiness witho...

Wild Nights! Wild Nights!   
Were I with thee,   
Wild Nights should be   
Our luxury!

Futile the winds   
To a heart in port, --   
Done with the compass,   
Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden!   
Ah! the sea!   
Might I but moor   
To-night in Thee!   
- Emily Dickinson

They stood face to face in Adams's bedroom, several feet apart, and Letha was feeling acutely and uncomfortably aware that she had actually_ ordered_ him to kiss her. Of course, if he didn't want to, he'd have made that pretty clear already. That didn't seem to be the problem. So, what _was_ the problem? Letha looked straight into his dark eyes and found no clue there. She shrugged slightly and headed for the door. "Maybe I shouldn't have..."

He reached out a hand towards her. "Wait." She did as he asked. "Tell me why?"

"Why?" Letha swallowed hard. "Because you owe me. I'm still waiting, since the day I turned thirteen. Only, I'm a lot _older_ now."

"Meaning?"

She smiled, blushing slightly. "Meaning, I expect payment with interest. At usurious rates."

To Letha's relief, Snape smiled at her. "Interest you shall have. But," he added, the smile disappearing, "Bailey said you despise me."

"Now, there's a reliable source of information. Actually, I thought it was you who despised me."

"What gave you that idea?"

"You did. It was you who threw me out of your house years ago, wasn't it? You treated me like a pariah at school. You never spoke to me once, not even when my grandmother died!" She paused to regain her composure, and Snape did not interrupt. Softly, she added, "What gave me the idea you detest me? You said as much in Dumbledore's office."

There was no valid contest to her argument, but he felt compelled to protest nonetheless. "I'm certain I never said any such thing! What I said was..."

She put out her hand, palm up. "Stop. I know what you said," she told him irritably. "At least I did a moment ago - let me think. Just give me a minute." She looked at the man across from her - she knew him, but from where? Panic began to set in.

In alarm, he began digging in his pocket for the green vial, pulled it out and carefully let two drops fall on his fingertip. More than that carried certain risks, but he decanted one more drop. "Come here," he ordered. When she hesitated, he added, more gently, "I won't hurt you." He held his finger to her lips and as the beads of green liquid touched her skin, memories flooded back into her mind, causing her to stagger slightly with confusion. She knew this was it - now or never. He gasped slightly as she gently grasped his finger with her lips and tongue. He brought his mouth to hers and kissed the corner of her lips, her cheekbone, her temple For an exquisite moment they stood, nearly touching, a breath apart, and finally, Letha saw in his eyes a light behind the opaque mask. She kissed his lower lip, kissed his upper lip, pressed her mouth to his, fighting the urge to close her eyes, so she could watch his eyes watching her. His tongue slid between her teeth and entwined with hers. He pulled her close and she moaned softly into his collar, as he swept her down onto the bed. Letha twisted around, so that she straddled his long slender body, her breasts swaying just above his face. He grasped them in his hands and kneaded them gently while his tongue circled and sucked each nipple in turn, then stopped to admire the effect he was having on them. Then they kissed again, a kiss that completely occupied the attention of lips, teeth, and tongue, of mind, soul and body. Letha slid her hands down between his thighs, smiling to herself at the reassuring hardness of him.

He guided her hands away, gently holding her wrists against the pillow. "Not yet," he murmured into her ear, his voice like buttercream, sending shivers down her spine. "There's no rush," he added, and she caught his mouth again with hers, as he lazily lingered on the "shhhh."

"Then I'd better keep you busy somehow," she said agreeably, resuming her attention to his mouth. Letha took kissing very seriously. And it showed. Davy Adams had not been the first man notably impressed by her aptitude in that skill. Several years earlier, she had kissed a handsome young wizard named Edgar Tolley with such excessive enthusiasm, that it had taken over a year to persuade the hapless fellow that it did not 'prove' she loved him. Coincidentally, at about the same time, Severus Snape had had a rather more intimate encounter with Edgar's sister Cynthia. It had taken the witch far less time to recognize the lack of long-term commitment on his part; 'That was pleasant, but I see no reason to relive it,' was fairly easy to comprehend, as a hint of his intentions. For some time, the names Faraday and Snape were both regarded with great hostility in the Tolley household.

Snape reached up to touch her face with his fingertip, slid it languorously down the curve of her cheek, the curve of her neck, the curve of her breast. "Letha?" he murmured.

"Yes?" she asked breathily.

"We should have done this a long time ago."

She whispered back, "I know." With each hand she grabbed a lock of his hair, twisted it around her fingers, and pulled him back towards her. They kissed again, a long, luxuriant kiss that left her breathless. Nevertheless, she pushed him away as a thought occurred to her. "Just a moment," she directed. "Don't go anywhere." Letha reluctantly releasing herself from his hold, stood up, picked up her wand and waved it in a circle around the room. _Silencio! _Snape stood up as well, removing his clothing and tossing it aside with an unaccustomed lack of fastidiousness. Letha threw her wand on the floor and let him enfold her in his embrace, planting a sloppy kiss on the side of his nose.

When she tried to urge him back to bed, he grasped both her wrists, kissed them, and placed them behind her back. "Do not move," he ordered her. "You are to remain absolutely still. Do you understand?" he asked solemnly.

She nodded, and he stared at her warningly. "I promise to behave, Severus."

He stood in front of her, his own hands similarly held behind him. With agonizing slowness, he inched closer to her, so that their bodies nearly touched. Letha could feel the warmth from his skin, smell his scent. The immediacy of his presence, so easily reachable yet just out of reach, made her giddy. Presently, he stood only agonizing inches away from her, the hint of a smile playing across his lips. When she strained towards him, hungrily, urgently, he leaned away lazily, maintaining the space between them.

Just as she was sure she would go mad, he dropped to his knees, slid his hands around her buttocks and flicked the tip of his tongue into the delicate round crevasse of her navel. She emitted a gasp of surprise that melted into a sigh of pleasure. As he worked his way up her body, they explored one another with mouth and hands. Then he lifted her up and laid her back on the bed.

It was neither the time nor the place of choice, but it was the only time and place they had. Why, he wondered, had he not realized sooner? As if he had come to comprehend some hitherto foreign language, he saw the expression in her eyes and understood what it meant. At the same time, his hand brushed the thick silky patch of hair between her legs, and his long slender fingers explored the warm, moist, inviting folds beneath.

For the first time in his life, Severus Snape had some inkling that 'love' was not some fragile bubble that burst upon contact with flesh; that with love, the physical and metaphysical, were not mutually exclusive. Combining the two, physical and metaphysical, created a magic more potent than any potion could ever be. He could see it, he could feel it, he could even smell it with his (admittedly overlarge) nose. It was a detectable note in the heady bouquet of soap and sex, fear and fervor, a note that stood out distinctly, unfamiliar and exhilarating.

There could be no doubt that she loved him; again he marveled that it had taken so long for him to realize. It had taken something of a tragedy to make him aware. What he did not recognize was that the tragedy was the _sine qua non_ of his realization. Had she expressed her desire for him under ordinary circumstances, he would have mistaken it for mere carnality, for the weakness of character, which had prevented him from ever loving her. And, despite everything, still did. Had he been thinking about it (and mercifully, he was too pleasantly occupied to be thinking about it), he might have realized that he did in fact love Letha, but, as Muggles were wont to say, he was not "in love" with her. It was unfortunate - even though he had just now come to recognize the miscibility of the sensual with the transcendent, he was not yet ready to offer both in combination to the same woman. As Letha had recognized, he was a true Romantic, and the one girl he had ever been in love with had died, never knowing (or caring) that he was even conscious of her existence. This, probably, was just as well.

Further consideration of the forces that had brought them to this encounter was forsaken. Severus was determined not to allow the brevity of the time allotted to them to make of it a hurried tryst. He focused on savoring every delectable moment of their time together.

"Letha?"

"Severus? Yes, Severus?" (She wanted to say his name over and over - maybe she would remember it that way.)

"Would you let me try something?"

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Why, whatever do you have in mind, my dear Mr. Snape?" she asked coquettishly.

"It is something I have read about, but never actually done. It can be dangerous, though." (Actually, much of what they'd done so far he had never actually done before either. In great measure, he was going on instinct and recollection of things he had read in books clandestinely borrowed, with no small embarrassment, from his father's private library. He hoped his lack of vast experience was not too painfully obvious, not realizing that Letha, had she been aware of any such deficit, would not have cared a fig. As it was, though, and as he would eventually come to discover, he had remarkably good instincts at such things.)

She stroked his hair. "What have I got to lose?" And she meant it.

He climbed out of her embrace and retrieved his wand. For a second time, he admonished her not to move. He positioned the tip of his wand immediately over her forehead, and drew it down her body, centimeters from her skin. Then he made some spiraling movements with the wand and called out "Impetus!"

A silvery bolt shot from the tip of his wand and blasted a hole in the pillow, inches from her head. His eyes widened in horror, but Letha started laughing. "Oh Severus, that was really..." She was overcome with giggles. "How will we explain the property damage?"

"What is so funny? I could have killed you!"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Try again."

He looked at her doubtfully, but she smiled with encouragement. Again, he drew the wand down the length of her body, and waved it in graceful spirals. This time there was no hesitancy or quaver, the wand soared through the air, a natural extension of his bare arm. This time there was no silver bolt, either. Instead, a shimmering shadow wove itself around her, and lifted her slightly off the bed.

"Well," she murmured breathily, "whatever it is, it worked."

Severus dropped his wand and touched her through the silvery film. He felt a surge of energy that passed from her hand to his hand, to his arm, to his chest, and throughout his body. He slid onto her and into her and a sort of glimmering fabric of energy enveloped them both. Every touch, every caress, resonated through every fiber of both their bodies. For a brief interlude, nothing else existed, or at least, nothing else mattered.

The funny thing was, what Severus did not realize, what he might not even have realized if he had been thinking about it, was that the spell would not work if certain elements were missing. By his reckoning, one important element was indeed missing, yet the spell had worked. Had he made that observation, he might have wondered at its implications.

It felt like he had been sitting on the couch for hours. He had been putting up with Bailey's sobs and moans, and his flat was in chaos - bloodstains on the couch, and an ugly yellow stain on the carpet where Bailey had wet himself when Snape had grabbed him. There was also the filth on his bed, where Letha had lain, covered in muck. He hoped Snape could "magic" the mess away. Adams picked up the newspaper and tried to read, but it was impossible to concentrate. Snape and Letha were locked away in the bedroom - HIS bedroom - doing - well, he was pretty sure he knew what they were doing. Restlessly, he stood up to fetch the whiskey bottle from the cupboard.

Of course, at the moment he was returning from the kitchen, Snape appeared at the bedroom door, looking rather disheveled. "Is everything all right in here?"

"Just fine," Adams replied tersely. He saw Snape looking at the whiskey bottle. "Want a shot?"

Snape looked tempted to accept, but shook his head. "I'd better not."

"How is she? I mean - how is she doing?"

"The antidote's worn off. I've given her a sleeping draught in the meantime."

"Can't you just keep giving her that antidote?"

"No. One of the ingredients is strychnine. Clearly, it must not be administered intemperately."

"I shouldn't think so! What will you do, then?"

"I will prepare another Portkey, and then I will be leaving with Miss Faraday and Mr. Bailey." He said it as if they were leaving on a routine business trip. "I do have a plan of sorts," Snape assured him.

"Are you - are you going to Obliviate me? I did agree to it, but I was hoping...."

"Obliviate you?" Snape looked at him pensively. "No. I think there's been quite enough of that. Besides, I may be back. Fairly soon, in fact."

"Indeed?"

"I might have a use for you. If you are not Obliviated." He glanced significantly at the whiskey bottle. "Or intoxicated."

"I haven't touched it yet," he grumbled defensively. He reluctantly returned the bottle to its usual spot.

Snape went into the bedroom and came back, carrying Letha wrapped in his robe. He sat on the couch and began fiddling with the newspaper, after which he dropped it on the floor near the couch.

"Is there something you can do about this mess?" Adams asked.

"Oh, certainly, I will take care of it. And the pillow."

"Very comforting. Wait a moment - what pillow?"

Snape ignored the question. He took Letha in his arms, grabbed Bailey by the collar, and without further delay, said, "Good evening, Mr. Adams." He stepped on the newspaper, and the three of them were gone.

"You could've at least said, 'Thank you', y'ungrateful sod," said Adams, to the space where Snape had been sitting a moment before.


	31. The welcome home

The room was dark and dusty, with a slightly dank odor. He had been away for quite a while, and was not surprised it had been left in disrepair. He left Bailey lying on the floor, and carried Letha down the hall to another room, pushing the door open. This room was bright and airy, and though it had been empty for years, there was a cheery fire in the grate and fresh flowers on the bedside table. He lay Letha down on the bed, covering her with the soft, flowery quilt. Then he kissed her on the forehead and departed, shutting the door behind him.

"Who's there?' a woman's voice called suspiciously. "Cissy? Cissy, is that you?" The voice sounded hopeful now.

"No, it is I, Mother."

"Oh", she responded, clearly disappointed. "You startled me. You're always skulking around like that; it drives me crazy."

The tall, slim woman approached him. She had cold, pale, handsome features, about which her dark hair was meticulously framed in a complex old-fashioned coif.

"Hello, Mother. It is a pleasure to see you again, as well."

She scolded him. "What were you doing in Cissy's room? I saw you sneaking out of there."

"I wasn't sneaking," he hissed. "I don't deny I was in her room."

"You'd better stay out of there!"

He rounded on her. "I have a guest who will be using Narcissa's chamber for a short while. It is YOU who will stay out of there." He grasped her upper arm, perhaps a bit roughly. "Is that clear?"

She pushed him away. "You are an ill-mannered brute, an uncouth pig, just like your father." As he drew back in distaste, she knew she had drawn blood. "At least your cousin married a gentleman."

He smirked. "Yes, of course. Have they visited you recently?"

"They are very busy and important people. Cissy sent me a lovely picture of little Draco. What a beautiful little boy he is, too. You must see the picture."

"That is unnecessary. After all, we will be seeing him at his birthday party in a few weeks, shall we not?"

She looked at him oddly. "Birthday party?"

"Surely you received an invitation from Narcissa?"

"You're making that up!" She began screaming at him shrilly. "If Cissy were having a party for my nephew, she would invite me. Why would she invite you and not me? You're lying!"

He smiled coldly. "If that is what you wish to believe." He swept past her and headed for the kitchen to find the old house-elf.

"Master Severus, you is home!" she squeaked excitedly. "Is good to see you!" The tiny wizened creature grew teary-eyed.

"It is good to see you too, Fippy." It WAS nice to know that somebody had missed him. His mother seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he had been in Azkaban. Or perhaps, she wished he was still there.

"Thank you, Master Severus." she croaked. "Sir honors Fippy." She threw her arms around his knee, and he did not shake her off immediately. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Would you mind preparing a nice hot meal for two, and bringing it to Cousin Narcissa's chamber?"

Her eyes widened. "Miss Narcissa's room? Madame Snape will be most angry."

"Madame Snape's view of the matter is of no interest to me." He added, "Oh yes, and have you any stale bread or slops, or something of that nature?"

"Oh no, sir", she answered, horrified.

"Well, anything will do, the less palatable the better. Bring it to the small spare room in the upper west wing."

Fippy stared at him, her huge eyes even wider than usual. "That room, sir? But that room is not good for no one. Is in very bad condition."

"I know. Not that mine - not that my current room - is much better."

"Fippy is so sorry, sir, please do not be angry with Fippy, sir, but Madame Snape said..."

"I know. I don't blame you." No doubt, Mother was hoping he would just stay away.

"Thank you, sir, thank you."

He smiled at her. "No, Fippy, thank YOU." He began heading back up the stairs while Fippy nearly collapsed in ecstasy. He turned around. "Oh yes, and could you send three owls to my chamber?"

"Three owls?" She looked puzzled. "We doesn't have..." Then her expression brightened. "Yes, Master Severus."

In his room, he lit a fire in the grate and wiped the dust off his desk. He sat down with quill and parchment and composed three letters - one to Albus Dumbledore, one to Narcissa (accepting the invitation to his nephew's party), and one to Anjana Patil. That one gave him the most concern; he feared she might rip it up at the sight of his seal.

After he'd sent off the three letters, he paid Bailey a visit. The room looked as unappealing as ever. A lukewarm bowl of congealed gray something-or-other and a jug of water were already set up and the fire was lit. "More than you deserve" thought Snape, as he waved his wand and removed the thorny vines in which Bailey was bound. As the man began stretching his arms and legs, Snape summoned Bailey's wand, catching it as it flew towards him. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, occasioned in part by the rank smell of stale urine. "Really, Bailey, can't you control yourself?"

Bailey stared at Snape, terrified. "Where am I? What are you going to do to me?" Snape ignored him. "The Ministry will be looking for me; you know that, don't you?"

Snape flashed a cryptic smile at him. "Not for long, I'd wager." He was counting on Dumbledore to take care of that. He left the room, locking the door with a key and multiple spells and hexes before he headed for Narcissa's room.

He woke up Letha and brought over the tray of food Fippy had left. Any curiosity she may have had about her surroundings was quickly overcome by the alluring scents of the food. Without a trace of decorum, she demolished an entire plate of veal cutlets, green peas, and mashed potatoes, sopping up the gravy with hunks of fresh bread. A large carafe of pumpkin juice disappeared posthaste, and when everything was gone, she emitted a satisfied belch. Finally, she looked up and blushed. "Sorry about that. I was famished."

"Would you like mine as well?" he asked drily.

She seemed to consider the offer. "No, thank you. Please, go ahead and eat. After you remind me - who are you?"

He sighed. "Severus Snape."

"And I am...?"

"Letha Faraday."

She mouthed the two names silently. "And, how do I know you?"

All in all, not a simple question. But the most generally accurate answer was simple. "We are old friends."

"I see. Oh, forgive me. Please, have your dinner. I will be quiet." He proceeded to eat, finding that he too was quite famished. While he ate, she sat watching him silently, which was rather disconcerting.

When he moved the dishes away, she spoke again. "Have I always been like this?"

"No. You are, in fact, a very intelligent woman."

"Am I?" she mused wistfully. "Doesn't do me much good now, does it?"

He took her hands in his, and pointed to the scratches from the thorny vines when she'd tried to untie George Bailey. "Do you remember how these happened?"

She sat thoughtfully for several moments then shook her head. "No idea."

His shoulders sunk. It meant that there might be no possibility of a 'learning curve'; each day she would have to learn anew what she had learned the day before. Perhaps, he thought, he should keep her on a steady dose of the memory charm antidote. Were it he, eventual death from poisoning would be preferable to a perpetual state of dementia praecox, made worse by the comprehension that it was occurring. Dumbledore - he would have to discuss it with him. And he hoped he would hear from Anjana Patil.

After a few days, Letha seemed to be feeling stronger. He was very pleased to discover that, if she was allowed to sleep and awaken without the aid of spells, potions or charms, she could recall the events of the day before.

One morning, an owl arrived from Professor Calibrato at Hogwarts.

_Dear Severus Snape:_

_I have informed Headmaster Dumbledore that I am considering retiring my post as Potions Master of Hogwarts. Upon due consideration, you have been recommended as a possible successor. Should you have any interest in the post, please appear at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on the 13th day of December._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor Tincturus Calibrato._

He reread the letter several times. At their previous meeting, he had hinted to Dumbledore that he would be interested in teaching Defense Against Dark Arts. He felt he was more qualified to teach it than most people, and he could not imagine what other sort of work he could obtain for which he would have the slightest bit of interest. He was sure Lucius would hire him in any capacity he should wish, but that was not something he would even consider.

Teaching meant having to put up with - students - (he grimaced unconsciously) - but it did not really seem like such a completely odious idea. And then, he really liked the idea of being at Hogwarts. Not that his memories of his school days were so pleasant - time had not dulled the edges of his recollections into a false golden nostalgia - but he felt safe there. Perhaps it was only because of Professor Dumbledore - but the school had always been a haven to him. At least, it had been better than home. And while teaching Potions was not the same as Dark Arts, it was a place to start. Perhaps they'd found someone to teach THAT class who managed to stick around for more than a year. He couldn't very well ask to usurp another professor's position. Not immediately, at any rate. (It did not occur to him how readily he thought of himself as a professor, as if it were a given that he would be offered the position.)

His only disappointment was that the interview would not be held until December 13th - after the Malfoys' party. He would have liked to ask Dumbledore's advice - on a number of matters. And he hated the idea of keeping Bailey in his custody for that long, but there seemed to be no other choice. In the meantime, he would have been pleased to know that, despite her initial misgivings, Anjana Patil had decided to read his letter.


	32. A cloud before the moon

"For my part I have walked through Lethe. The past has melted like a cloud before the moon."

- _The Fullness of Life_, by Edith Wharton

It had become something of a daily routine to partake of his meals with Letha in her room. Fippy had set up a small table with two chairs, so that they could eat in a relatively civilized manner. In the morning, he would bring her the Daily Prophet to read, and by teatime, she usually had a barrage of questions. It was understandable, between her lost memory and the nature of her disposition (she had after all, chosen the law as her profession), but it could be a bit overwhelming at times. On one occasion, when he was preoccupied, he had responded rather sarcastically, and since then, she had cut down her interrogatory to a few queries she deemed most pertinent.

It could not have been terribly exciting to sit in one room all day, but he did not think it wise to let her wander the house. He was not only concerned about his mother; there were also occasional visits from some of Madame Snape's acquaintances. He was not sure that encounters with Mother and her pretentious, nosy friends would have a highly therapeutic effect on Miss Faraday, or that she would be prepared to deal with the inevitable questions her presence would raise.

Snape transferred the box he was carrying to one hand and knocked on the door.

"Sorry she called from the other side of the door, "my schedule is very busy today. You'll have to make an appointment."

"Very well, I will take my breakfast downstairs."

"Don't you dare!" she shouted.

He smirked and unlocked the door. "I thought you were beginning to find my visits tiresome."

"Did you really? I have nothing old to remember, and nothing new to contemplate, except the newspaper with stories about people and events I know nothing about. I see no one but you. So it MAY happen that I think about you occasionally." She smiled at him oddly, and repeated, "Occasionally."

She was wearing one of his cousin's old dresses. Letha did not have Narcissa's reed-thin build, and the dress fit a bit snugly. He thought it looked quite fetching on her. He put the box down on the bed, and she came over to look into it. "What do you have here?" She took advantage of the occasion to brush a few stray hairs out of his eyes. The tips of her fingers brushed against his cheek; it was very tempting...

He deliberately moved away from her, and adopted a pedantic tone of voice. "I thought it might be useful to try to refresh your recollection. We can see what you do remember."

"Very well," she responded, with a trace of disappointment. "Let's see just how ignorant I am."

He had paid a surreptitious visit to her flat and gathered several items he thought might jog her memory. He handed her a picture of a man and a woman, holding hands and smiling at each other. She examined it curiously. "Are these my parents?" she asked.

"Then you recognize them?"

"No. But the man has hair like mine, and the woman's face resembles mine a bit. It seemed a reasonable conclusion that they are my parents."

"That is true." Of course, her father had been dead for a number of years and her mother had become a patient at St. Mungo's shortly after that. Letha might be joining her there, if Dr. Patil failed to respond to his letter. He proceeded to show her a variety of pictures and objects; some seemed to spark a glimmer of familiarity, but she could not identify any of them with any certainty. Snape showed her a small painting of two giggling young girls, one fair and the other dark. "What do you know about this picture?"

Letha held the painting and scrutinized it carefully. "This is me, and this is my best friend."

"Are you assuming that is so, based on the picture, or do you actually remember her?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. I don't know. Who is she?"

"That girl was named Anjana Rao. You and she were inseparable at school; I think you called her Anji. Now she is married and uses the name Anjana Patil."

It was apparent that the name meant nothing to Letha, who once again inspected the picture. "Was this painted by someone close to me?"

Snape took another look at the picture. "Yes, it was. I recognize the mark at the bottom. Your grandmother painted it."

"Did you know my family?"

"Not your parents, but I met your grandmother, when you spent a summer with her." I came to her house to - "He paused. "I came to see you."

"I wish I could remember that."

"I hope you will. Your grandmother is worth remembering."

They looked at a few other items together, and then he took out two last objects. He held out to her two wands, one in each hand. "Do you know what these are?" he asked.

"Yes, I know what they are. Wish I could remember how to use one."

"Show me which one is yours."

She took them both from him. She studied each of them individually, and compared them. Finally she held one up in her right hand. "This one is mine."

"Ah! You recognize it?"

"Not precisely." She held out the other one to him. "But I am quite certain this one is yours, so the other must be mine."

Her response caught him by surprise. It was possible that her own wand was hard for her to identify because someone else had recently been using it, and furthermore, using it to execute spells that Letha would never perform herself. But he could not fathom why she could recognize HIS wand as such. "You are correct, but I really can't say whether or not this bodes well for your recovery."

She shrugged. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

That was true, but Severus Snape disliked uncertainty. He was disturbed by her inability to recognize objects and pictures that should have had important personal significance. Yet she was so nonchalant about her incapacity; he found it rather irritating.

They finished breakfast and discussed some of the Ministry's actions, which Letha had read about but found impossible to comprehend. It was the sort of spirited exchange he recalled sharing with her that summer, years earlier, in the hollow in the forest, and he found it refreshing. At a pause in the conversation, he broached the subject he had been avoiding. "If you are growing weary of my visits, I have good news for you," he said lightly.

She glanced up at him warily. "What do you mean?"

"I have some errands to perform. I will be leaving shortly, and will not be back until late tomorrow, at the earliest."

She could not hide the disappointment in her face. "Well, I will have some badly-needed time to myself then, won't I?"

"I suppose so. Fippy, of course, will bring you your meals, and anything else you might need."

She grimaced at him. "Anything? How bloody likely is that, do you think?" she asked bitterly.

He had no answer to offer, and he turned his frustration against her. "Everything is being taken care of for you. I do not think you have any reason to complain."

"I don't want things 'taken care of.' I want to be able to go where I please, when I please. I want to take care of things myself. I want my life back!"

His voice softened. "I know."

A short while later, he left her alone in the room, locking the door behind him. He left some last instructions for the house-elf, and then headed to his room to prepare for his undertakings.


	33. A trip to Diagon Alley

Two jaundiced eyes, narrowed to slits, glared down from behind an enormous desk. "I am afraid I _cannot_ allow you to enter the vault, unless you hand in your wand."

"I don't recall any such rule in the past."

The goblin smiled unpleasantly. "You've been away for some time, have you not, Mr. Snape? There are special rules in such cases."

Snape blanched. He said nothing, but stiffly placed his wand on the desk with exquisite delicacy. The goblin snatched it unceremoniously. Snape's hand flew up and seized the goblin by the wrist.

"Do I need to have you removed from the premises?" warned Griphook.

Snape reluctantly removed his hand. "My apologies," he muttered. The wizard and the goblin regarded one another with distaste.

Griphook snapped his fingers and there appeared a particularly nasty-looking goblin, clad in a dragonskin loincloth and chain mail vest. Griphook addressed him. "Tenderbottom, you will escort Mr. Snape to his vault."

Tenderbottom grunted, "Y's'r'M'Gr'k" and stationed himself unpleasantly close to his charge. Though he'd not have admitted it, Griphook felt a certain grudging respect for Snape, who, unlike many humans forced into close proximity with Tenderbottom, seemed to bear the goblin's noxious bodily emissions with exceptional stoicism.

For his part, Snape was very certain that Tenderbottom had _never_ been ribbed about his name.

After taking care of business, Severus Snape was very relieved to depart the halls of Gringotts, a sizable sack of galleons safely tucked away in one pocket and grateful to have his wand restored. He then proceeded to Mr. Ollivander's wand shop. He peeked in the window and caught sight of a young wizard and his father, deep in conversation with Ollivander. Snape waited on a far corner until they departed.

When Snape entered the shop, Mr. Ollivander was facing the back shelf, and did not immediately turn around. He did greet his customer with a pleasant "Good morning," however. He pulled out two boxes. "Oh dear, these don't belong here." He chuckled. "That was another first-year needing a wand replacement after trying to enchant a Knarl. Professor Cadwallader's class has done wonders for mid-year business." As Ollivander turned around, he asked, "Perhaps that is that what brings you...." He saw Snape's grimace and discontinued his question.

"I am surprised that the destruction of your handiwork by incompetent students should so amuse you," Snape commented irritably.

"Perhaps someday you will have your own little bundle of destruction. Then you might see things differently."

"I doubt it," scoffed Snape.

Ollivander paused, appraising his client. "No, I suppose not, Mr...?"

"Snape."

"Ah. A hint of recognition of the name was evident in the way the wandmaker pursed his lips. He again turned his back on Snape and resumed his organizational tasks for several minutes. If Snape was annoyed, he did not betray it. "There," said Ollivander, "all done. Now, how can I help you? Of course, as I'm sure you're aware, no adult wizard may replace his wand without proper proof and explanation," said Ollivander archly.

Snape's lip curled. "That is not why I am here." He then asked softly, "May I speak to you in a back room, perhaps?"

"Perhaps if you tell me why you've come."

"The Witherspoon Wand."

Ollivander knit his brows bemusedly. "Surely you are not here merely out of curiosity? And it is not for sale."

"I wish to borrow it."

"That's impossible! Surely, you're not...?"

"Certainly not," Snape growled.

"Then why...?"

"May we speak in private?" asked Snape, though there was no one else in the shop.

Ollivander considered for several moments, flicked the "Closed" sign into the window and lead Snape to the back room. "Are you familiar with the Witherspoon Wand and its history?"

"I am."

Ollivander ignored Snape's answer. "Abelard Witherspoon was the only child of one of the oldest and most important wizard families. "Unfortunately," he considered, "or not, the Witherspoon family tree has since withered and died." He glanced at Snape, but seeing no reaction to the feeble pun, plunged on. "Alas, young Abelard lacked the slightest magical ability whatsoever. He was a squib, through and through. He was also a fop, a dandy, and more than a bit of a fool, but not so foolish as to not recognize the derision with which he was regarded behind his back. Money was no object, and he had a special wand commissioned for himself. "_This_ wand," he added, producing a baton of well-oiled rosewood, inlaid with a complex ivory runes and ebony geometrics, burlwood florettes and mahogany whorls.

Snape curled his lip in distaste; he was a firm believer in simplicity of design. "It is fortunate that something so hideous is merely a toy. It would be a tragedy to ruin a real wand like that."

"Scoff if you wish," said Ollivander, "but this wand is no toy. It is in fact a brilliant piece of work by my great-grandfather, and none like it has ever been made before or since, that can do what _this_ wand can do."

Snape smiled thinly. "Kill its owner?"

"That was the damned idiot's own fault," Ollivander answered with a hint of annoyance. "And just why is it you wish to borrow the Witherspoon Wand?"

Without answering, Snape pulled from his robe a small roll of parchment, and handed it to Ollivander. The wandsmith unrolled it and read:

_Dear Mr. Ollivander:_

_Please provide the bearer of this note with whatever it is he may request. Thank you for your courtesy._

_Your humble servant,_

_A.P.W.B. Dumbledore_

He looked at Snape, at the parchment, back at Snape, and back at the parchment. "Can you prove its authenticity?"

Snape flicked his wand at the parchment and a familiar voice issued forth. "Upon my honor, these words are mine own."

Ollivander chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "Well, if Dumbledore says so," he muttered dubiously. He ceremoniously replaced the wand in its box and handed it to Snape.

"Are you aware that its use resulted in the death, not only of Witherspoon, but its two subsequent owners as well?"

Snape nodded. "One also a Squib, the other a Muggle."

"Yes."

Snape shrugged. "That is a chance we will have to take."

Ollivander did not ask the burning question, which was to whom did "_we_"refer? "You _will_ be sure to tell me of any - untoward - occurrence, won't you?" Snape's black eyes flicked towards the wandmaker, who smiled grimly. "Provenance increases value, you see."

Snape smirked. "Of course, I understand." _But not on my watch_, he thought.

Nearly an hour later, after the two wizards had prepared Witherbottom's Wand for its task, Snape left the shop with the Wand safely stored in its box. He then proceeded to Madam Malkin's where the witch was, for once, mistaken in anticipating Mr. Snape's 'usual order'. She was both pleased and surprised when he purchased, in addition to his customary end-of-the-year shirts and boots, a costly set of silk dress robes of midnight blue, in the latest fashion. It was highly unusual, for Madam Malkin could not recall the last time this customer had purchased any item other than an identical replacement for its worn predecessor. Despite her curiosity, Madam Malkin knew better than to query him about his unexpected expenditure. Her evident discretion was rewarded when he made an inexplicable last minute purchase of a simple but elegant witch's dress and matching robe in the same color, and left ten extra galleons in addition to payment. There was no need for Snape to explain to Madam Malkin the reason for his excessive generosity.

Next, he headed down a side street, and located a small shop. Standing before its smooth, shiny metallic door, Snape hesitated, thoroughly repulsed by the thought of entering within. However, the possibility of anyone _seeing_ him standing with his hand poised on the door handle of "Le Style Moldu" was even more mortifying, and he hurriedly slipped inside.

The store was quite large, neat and airy, with walls and floors in a pale, bland wood. An actual Muggle might have felt quite at home, except that the merchandise was more varied than one would likely find in any typical Muggle clothing store. Racks of jeans hunkered alongside kilts; the filmy skirts of colorful saris floated cheerfully between dark burqas, and tawdry leather jumpsuits.

"May I help you?"

Snape, who had been staring about in horrified fascination, focused on the young woman in front of him, a cheerful smile framed by bright red lips that overpowered her small, pale face. She herself was dressed in a style that would be eschewed by any self-respecting witch. Several barbed comments sprang immediately to the wizard's mind, but he held his tongue, and merely stated his requirements. It seemed to him that a pair of black trousers and a charcoal-gray pullover were sufficient for the purposes, and the shop-girl assured him that it suited him very well. (If he suspected that she merely said so for the purpose of making the sale, he would have been mistaken.)

By the time Snape departed from Le Style Moldu, thanking his lucky stars that he hadn't run into anyone, it was getting late and he was feeling rather peckish. He located The Red Lion Inn on a sidestreet off Knockturn Alley, where the rates were reasonable, the fare and lodging clean and decent. It would, in fact, have been well-suited for the clientele of Diagon Alley, but Rastus Pemberton, respected businessman and owner of the Leaky Cauldron, had recognized competition when he saw it. Pemberton had more influence in the Ministry than most people realized, and had found no difficulty in keeping The Red Lion out of his territory. Snape had dinner brought to his rooms and retired early, in preparation for his trip.


	34. An unpleasant journey

**Author notes:** I own nothing you recognize. Thanks as always, to June. The middle portion of this chapter between the horizontal lines was written by Melpomene Claros, who may be very sorry she felt the urge to make a silly chapter even sillier. Thanks, Mel!

Chapter 34 - An Unpleasant Journey

The next morning, Snape donned the Muggle clothing under his robe, and headed onto the streets of London proper. He spent little time there; his destination was King's Cross Station. However, he did not seek out the portion of the railway station unseen and unknown to the legions of Muggle travelers and commuters. Of course there was the wizards' line, that would have taken him to his destination, but he had decided that he was far less likely to run into an acquaintance if he traveled by Muggle rail. The idea had occurred to him in the shop where he'd purchased the Muggle attire. A sign above the counter announced that galleons would be exchanged for various Muggle forms of currency (at a usurious exchange rate, no doubt), and he had traded in a modest sum for British pounds, primarily for the purpose of procuring his rail ticket.

He managed to purchase the fare without incident, and then, having some time to spare, wandered over to a bookseller's shop to find some appropriate reading material for his trip. He purchased a paperback novel and a copy of the Times Then he meandered back to the railway station.

Once he boarded the train, he found an empty compartment. He stowed most of his purchases on the rack above the seats, but he kept his own traveling bag and the wand box close to his side. He sat down and opened the Times, but had little patience for Muggle news.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" Snape looked up. A frazzled-looking middle-aged woman with long mousy hair and a few too many pounds on her stood peering at him anxiously through her glasses. She must have had to run for the train, because her hair was disheveled, her face was red and she was wheezing as she tried to catch her breath. He waved his hand vaguely toward the seat across from his and resumed reading.

The woman struggled with her bag, attempting to shove it into the rack above her seat. It fell down, hitting her in the forehead and knocking her glasses crooked. "Damn!" she exclaimed, with a distinctly American accent. She glanced over at him beseechingly for assistance, but he pretended to be too engrossed in the newspaper to notice.

Eventually, the woman got her bag to stay put and she settled down, now rummaging through her oversized and overstuffed purse. She pulled out a paperback book and began reading. After a while, Snape put aside the newspaper and picked up the novel he'd purchased. As he tried to make some sense out of the bizarre behavior of a character named Oedipa Maas, and to figure out what a Tupperware party was, he concluded that it had not been the best of all possible choices.

"Ohmigawd!" shrieked the woman across from him. Snape looked up in alarm. "Oh, I'm SO sawry", she said sheepishly, blushing bright red. "But, look, this is SO wee-ahd, we're reading the same book!"

Her peculiar manner of speech was rather dissonant to his ears, her manner was quite strident, and he had decided he'd ignore her. In the meantime, the woman, seemed to have entered a trance-like state. "Are you ill?" he asked, regretting the question the moment he'd asked.

The woman blushed an even deeper shade of crimson, if that were possible, and sank down in her seat. She waved her hands in the air. "No, I'm- I'm okay, thanks. Would you prefer - um - if I switched compawtmints?"

Actually, he would have preferred if she did so, but he considered having to endure her removal of her bag from the rack, and the disagreeable tumult that would surely engender. "No, that is quite alright."

"I'm sawry." She scrunched up her face rather comically.

"You needn't keep apologizing."

"Sawry. I mean - I'll shuddup now."

He nodded curtly and again picked up the book. He had plodded through two pages of incomprehensible gibberish, when he felt her staring at him. He glared at her over the top of the book, and her eyes flew back to her own copy. "Madame..."

To Snape's bewilderment and annoyance, the woman let out a snort of laughter. Once again, she said "Sawry, sawry!" She clapped her hand over her mouth, which did not prevent it from emitting another rather flatulent-sounding snort. Snape glared at her again. "You wouldn't be from New York, would you?"

"Yeah, I ee-am! I told my husband I wann-ed to see Europe, but he din't wanna come, so I told him he could stay home with the kids, and I..."

"It was a simple question, yes or no," he said icily. "I really do not care to learn your entire life story." He was sure that would send her packing (he now regretted having earlier turned down her offer), but she merely shrugged.

"Gotcha! I'll shut up then." And, after one last "Sawry," she was true to her word. It seemed that the rest of the trip would pass peacefully.

* * *

His peace however, was interrupted by another commotion just outside the compartment door. "Don't bother!" came a woman's voice in an aggravated tone just before the door banged open. The owner of the voice nearly fell into the compartment as the train went through a switch.

"Jesus!" The woman hissed and slumped into the seat next to the New Yorker. She huddled in what seemed to be an entire wardrobe worth of sweaters topped off with a thick wool coat. "It's freezing in this damned country ___all the time_!"

Snape groaned internally as he recognized another American accent. He glared over his book again. "New York, is it?"

The newcomer glared back. "Hell no, it's just as cold there. And almost as wet. Does the sun ___ever _shine here?" she looked to be examining him closely. "No," she decided apparently basing her conclusion on his complexion. "It does not."

He looked back into the incomprehensible book and pretended to be enjoying it. He noticed the newcomer eyeing him then turning to his original, now seemingly dumb, companion. He nearly dropped his book when he saw her catch the eye of the other woman and mouth what looked like the word "WOW" while waving her hand as if it were on fire. The bookish woman turned puce and buried her head in the pages of her novel but he could see her shoulders shaking with what appeared to be laughter.

"Well if you're all going to read..." The newcomer started fishing around in the oversized bag that had fallen into the compartment with her. "Aha!" she said quietly then snorted and looked up. "Oh perfect...dark, rain, misery and now this." She pulled a book out from the depths of the bag and settled back. Snape heard her riffling pages and looked up ready with a sharp comment but was struck silent by the title of the book she was holding: ___Dracula. _The original. This did not bode well for continued peace. He had experience with this. He tried to figure out how much longer he'd have to stay on the train. The women had settled in for a long ride, it didn't appear either one of them would be getting off any time soon.

He had gotten so lost in his reverie he hadn't noticed the women had started a discussion.

"...The original, can't beat his Dracula."

"I don't know, just the thought of it gives me the creeps. I mean, do they really sleep ___in _the dirt, ___inside _the coffins?"

He snapped to attention. "What the bloody hell...?" He stopped himself quickly. He hadn't meant to say anything at all.

The two women gaped at him. He noticed an odd grin creeping across the face of the one holding ___Dracula. _She glanced sideways at her companion. "Know a little about the children of the night, do you?" she asked.

"Quite a bit, actually. I can tell you that nearly everything in that book is absolute rubbish!" he answered curtly and held his book up hiding his face while wondering if it was worth the risk to hurl a quick spell at her. He fingered his wand absently.

"Well, thank you, professor. I honestly thought it was a true story," she sneered. "I'm glad you cleared that up for me."

"Do you mind?" he said in an exasperated tone, "I have had a difficult day, I have a long journey ahead and a miserable task to complete at the end of it. Is it too much to ask for just a little bit of peace and quiet?" His voice had risen in anger as he'd reminded himself of his mission.

The sweater woman glared at him, but her eyes were shining. "Bite me!" she snapped.

The first woman doubled over in what he hoped was a sneezing attack. It seemed to go on for quite some time.

It was quiet for a few minutes and he hoped it would remain that way. The women had decided to go back to their reading, despite their choice of materials. He felt himself starting to doze off.

"Hey! Wait a minute!"

He opened one eye.

"You said ___nearly _everything in this book is rubbish. What do you mean ___nearly_?"

He ignored the question.

"Oh come on..."

He slapped his book down on the seat beside him with an exasperated sigh. "What? What is it you want to know?"

She held up Dracula. "What part of this is true?"

He stared at her in disbelief. "You really want to know?"

"Really."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"The biting and sucking part," he said with a sneer.

The woman from New York to exploded in another fit...this time coughing. He looked over at her nervously. His challenger, however registered nothing.

"Shee--it," she said in a drawl. "Okay then, how about the part if you get bitten by one then you turn into one?"

"Not necessarily."

"Evening wear all the time?"

"No!"

Miss Noo Yawk had recovered and decided to join in the tutorial. "Can they toin into bats?

"Not unless they could do it before..."

The trouble maker tried again. "Well then, how about the irresistable sexual magnetism?"

"Listen. You wouldn't want to get within a hundred yards of a real vampire. They are indescribably revolting. They're dead! They look dead and they smell dead."

"You're making this up!"

"I assure you, I am not."

"Oh well what then, did you go to some special school?"

He allowed a malicious grin to cross his face and he said, "Well yes, actually. A very exclusive one, as a matter of fact."

"Uh huh," they both responded and exchanged a knowing glance. Just as he'd hoped. Tell people the truth and they're sure you're insane.

"I loiked Lestat better anyway," the New Yorker informed her companion. "He can bite and suck me any-toim at awl!"

They both broke up laughing and Snape rolled his eyes. He'd never found himself wanting to expose the truth about the magical world to Muggles, but these two could really use a dose of reality as far as magical beings were concerned.

"Lestat's cool, but Louis is a wimp. Imagine having him following you around whining for all eternity. Then he went and made that little girl into a vampire too."

"Oh noo...." he groaned. Again he hadn't meant to do so aloud.

"What's wr-awnk? Is that, like, against some vampire code or ethics or somethink?"

Snape leaned forward and sank his head into his hands. "A vampire wouldn't know a code of ethics if it jumped up and bit him on the ear!" he mumbled into his palms.

"Biting again," one of them said.

"Well it's awl-roiyt, Lestat burned them up anyway in the end by locking them out in the sun."

"Thank goodness for that!" he looked up and snapped at them.

* * *

It was quite apparent that the two American women were intent on making his trip unbearable. The second one, in particular, seemed to have absolutely no sense of propriety. And the first one had some disagreeable medical condition which caused her to cough, sneeze and choke spasmodically. Perhaps she was allergic to the other one's vile cologne, because each time #2 leaned over to speak to her, #1 would go into one of her fits. He made a concerted effort to ignore them and concentrate on the god awful novel.

",,, So which d'ya recommend, arsenic or strychnine?"

"Well, hemlock's always in good taste - it has good historical precedent."

His eyes flew towards the two women, chatting amiably about deadly poisons. "I should be glad to tell you where you might procure any of those substances," he spat, "if you _promise_ you will use it!"

The New Yorker grinned. "Now, that's a deal. About how much d'ya think we need to knock 'em off?"

Eyes wide with alarm, he demanded "Who?"

"Our husbands, that's who. That _is_ what we were talking about."

He was flabbergasted. "I think it behooves me to notify the authorities of your intentions," he informed her stiffly.

The other one piped up. "Who do you think they'll believe, a couple of nice, harmless American tourist ladies or..."

"Or what?" he demanded, face growing flushed.

She grinned broadly. "Or a vampire."

He stared at her stonily. "I - AM - NOT - A - VAMPIRE!"

New York nudged the troublemaker. "Y'know, he does seem a bit defensive - dontcha think?"

He regretted his outburst - but it was in fact a bit of a sore spot with him.

New York continued, probably spurred on by her new comrade's boldness. "By the way, Mr. Vampire Expert, do you mind if I open the window shade?" She lifted the corner of it and peeked out. "It is awfully bright out, though. Would that disturb you?" She smirked at him insufferably.

Wordlessly, he leaned over and opened the shade fully. The women squinted in the glare of the sunlight. "There, are you happy now?" he growled from between clenched teeth.

"A bit disappointed ack-chully. It would been great to go home and tell everyone I'd watched a vampire disintegrate."

Well, he thought, at least that was the end of that, but the torment was not destined to end there. The woman reached into her bag and pulled out a camera. "Y'know, I want to show my friends back home pictures of the nice people I meet on my trip. How 'bout one of the two of you?"

Snape snarled, "I wouldn't be caught DEAD in a photograph with either of you!"

Big-mouth leaned over to her accomplice and whispered loudly, "Pretty fly for a dead guy." Both women began giggling again. A stupefying charm would be just the ticket. Oh, for the good old days, when Muggle torture was condoned. Surely Dumbledore would understand extenuating circumstances.... But no, self-control was the key. He was on their turf, even if they were bloody colonials. He stood up and glared at them. "I've had it! If you two are staying here, I am moving!" He gathered his belongings and stalked out of the compartment.

The two women sat in silent disappointment at the departure of their hapless victim.

"Maybe we got a little carried away. Shoo-ah it was fun an' all, but he was awf'ly cute. Too bad we scee'd him away."

Her companion smiled knowingly. "He'll be back."

"Ya think? Think he really likes us, but won' admit it?"

"No, I think he can't stand us. However..." She pointed a finger at the rack across from them. In his hurry to flee, the vampire-expert had left his package behind.

"Ah!"

Sure enough, the pale, slender dark-eyed young man reappeared at the door.

"Oh, you missed us?"

He shot them a withering glance. "I left something behind!"

"Oh shaw, go ahead and make excuses! Which one of us has won yaw feency? I bet it's me!" She began fanning herself vigorously. "Oh, be still, my beading hawt!"

He smirked malevolently. "THAT can be arranged."

"Oh no" said the other one. "I know he's fallen for me. He might not admit it, but he's intrigued with my quick wit and clever repartee."

"Uh-uh," responded New York. "It's me. You can't resist my exotic eah-ccent and my intellec-chuality."

Snape rolled his eyes, wondering if this journey would ever end.


	35. In Dublin

**Author notes:** Thanks as always, to June.  
I have researched the Gaelic place-names and mythology, but I apologize if I have used these terms and names incorrectly.

After the interminable train trip, he first had to transfer to a ferry to get to Dublin. Snape vowed he would never travel by Muggle means again. He welcomed the dull monotony of the ferry trip. Disembarking, he followed the directions he had gathered before leaving London. He found his way to Ascaill Manannan, the main thoroughfare of Wizard Dublin, and slipped into The Golden Shillelagh, which seemed at that moment to be the meeting place for a crowd of leprechauns, most of whom seemed exceedingly tipsy.

One, apparently a bit less inebriated than his companions, screamed at the sight of Snape. He pointed and yelled, "What air ya doin' herrre?"

Was his foreignness so obvious? Then it occurred to him; he was still in Muggle dress. "Silly creature!" he muttered. He headed down to Cúirt stepped out into the Lane, quickly locating another inn, The Crooked Codpiece, where he took a room to change into his normal attire and to drop off his bag and packages. He signed into the inn as 'Eamon FitzGerald"; speaking to the clerk with the brogue he'd been practicing, its authenticity enhanced with a Mimeticus charm. To his gratification, the clerk did not question his identity. After changing his clothes, he returned to the Lane. It largely resembled Diagon Alley, except the streets were wider and better paved, and many of the shops were cheerfully adorned with flowers and herbs in colorful tubs.

Walking down the Lane, he examined the shop-fronts he passed, when one particularly caught his eye. A small shop set away from the street and squashed between two larger structures, Peckham's Apothecary, Ltd. had none of the charming little touches that some of the other shops used to appeal to the public interest. However, it appealed to his. Dust and grime partially obscured his view of piles upon piles of bottles, boxes, vials, jars and cans that rose well past the height of the window, teetering precariously against one another. He was irresistibly drawn into the shop.

Behind the counter stood an elderly grey man with a thick grey beard and a thin crest of grey hair, wearing a dull grey robe that had seen better days. "May I help you?" Snape's black eyes eagerly scanned the rows and columns of containers. Towards the front were many identical jars of common items. As he looked towards the rear of the shop, he noticed more esoteric and arcane items. Several bottles of vampire oil in one corner made him wrinkle his nose in disgust as he thought of his vexatious travel companions on the train. "Mr. Peckham?" The man nodded. "D'ya have any dried Hungarian horntail horn - no," he corrected himself. "Any Roumanian stellate-horntail fetal horn-root?". Roumanians had long ago been hunted to extinction, and the item he'd asked for was extremely difficult to obtain.

Mr. Peckham furrowed his brow and pulled on his beard. "Hmm - one moment, if you don' mind?" He disappeared behind a wall of jars and bottles. Snape waited. And waited. After a while, he began pacing impatiently, but was careful to avoid knocking over any of the merchandise; to do so would surely have initiated an avalanche. Finally, the man returned, looking greyer than ever with a film of dust over his clothing. He cradled a small jar in his hand, and proudly handed it to Snape. "Here ya go, sir. Only one like it I've got"

Snape took it from him and examined the ancient jar. A familiar crest, three intertwined serpents, with the letters BSM below it, adorned the cracked and faded label, which was partially peeling from the container. "About 200 years old? Perhaps 220 years old? Black, Snape and Malfoy, isn't it?"

The grey man gingerly lifted the corners of his mouth into a crooked smile. "Always a pleasure to serve a knowledgeable customer."

In the dungeon of the family manor, Snape still had a number of such rare items, even a few from the days of Black and Snape, before the first Malfoi interloper, dating back as much as 450 years. He wondered what sort of sum those would fetch, merely out of curiosity. He would never have seen fit to sell them.

With no regret, he paid the rather hefty price of the item, giving his name once again as Eamon FitzGerald. Mr. Peckham commented, "Surprised I haven't seen ya in here before, sir, a connoisseur such as yourself."

Snape looked at him thoughtfully, and pulled out an extra 50-galleon piece. "Of course you have, Mr. Peckham. It's just been a while; I haven't had a chance to stop in recently." He looked at the man quizzically. Mr. Peckham pocketed the coin. "Certainly, Mr. FitzGerald. How could I forget such a good customer as yourself, sir?"

Snape nodded and favored the old wizard with a genuine smile; he was pleased with his purchase, and with Peckham's cooperation. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Peckham".

"Indeed it has, sir."

With his newest acquisition in hand, he moved on to his intended destination, a shop specializing in formal wizard attire. Although daily attire for the Irish wizard was not significantly different from that of the English wizard, the cut and style of formal attire was noticeably distinctive and distinguishable. Eamon FitzGerald was fitted for and purchased an elegant silk costume, in a very dark green. This suit would be delivered to him in approximately one week. For a man who so rarely wasted his limited funds on inessentials, the contemplation of how much he had spent on clothing in two days was enough to cause him a severe headache

After a decent lunch, with which he allowed himself a glass of ale laced with _Tofieldia__ palustris_, Snape wandered casually down the lane. He had made up his mind: the mission that he was on was really quite a pleasant one, if he could ignore the fact that he was squandering large sums of money on utterly useless purchases. After all, frittering away a few paltry galleons would be of no concern to Mr. FitzGerald, and it was _he_ who was making the purchases, according to the trail of invoices he left in his wake. A bottle of fine cognac, some Cuban cigars, an English-to-Cyclopsian translator, a stockminder (letting you know when a particular item was running low), and a silver frog with a dragon-hide wandsheath. He would never use such a thing, of course, but, he smirked to himself, Mr. FitzGerald would and will.

After buying a few last odds and ends, he returned to the inn, gathered his belongings, and found his way to the railway station. The TBWRL (Trans-Britain Wizard Rail Line) would take him directly back to London, passing through a tunnel, which was unknown and invisible to the Muggles. He purchased a ticket and was pleased to find that the train was nearly empty; he would have a compartment to himself. He sat down and made himself comfortable.

There was a certain satisfaction he felt as he spent his last few sickles on a cup of tea and a copy of the Prophet; he would arrive home penniless, having, apparently, anticipated his needs to the last knut. Snape was surprised how exhausted he felt from a pursuit as seemingly simple and effortless as shopping. He actually looked forward to returning home. Miss Faraday would, no doubt, be anxious to see him. In fact, she would very likely greet him with great enthusiasm, especially when he returned with an unexpected gift..... And was there really any harm in allowing her to express her feelings? Or in allowing matters to take their course, as they might? The gentle motion of the train, and the pleasant homecoming scenario that filled his thoughts, lulled him into a peaceful slumber.


	36. The Homecoming

It was not easy to balance so many things at once. As he got off the train, two different parcels went flying in different directions - fortunately neither of them breakable. (He actually felt a twinge of belated sympathy for the annoying Muggle woman whose suitcase had fallen in her face.) He conjured a large heavy net, piled his purchases therein, twisted the top neatly, and shrank the large unwieldy lump into a small bundle, easily carried in one hand.

Arriving at the house, he re-expanded his packages and stowed them in his chamber. Spending money lavishly seemed to have had a marvelous effect on his spirits, once he had determined not to worry about the effect it had on his net financial worth. He pulled out the dress-box; it might be useful in ensuring that the evening would be equally enjoyable. He carried it down the hall to Letha's room, and knocked smartly on the door.

"Yes?" responded a wary voice.

"May I come in?"

"If you wish," was the glum response.

He unlocked the door and swept into the room. Letha sat gloomily in a hideous pink armchair, her arms wrapped across her chest, with an expression of great irritation. Perhaps she was upset that he'd left her alone for two whole days. He held out the box appeasingly. "I've brought you something."

"Oh, how kind of you," she said dully. "You can leave it on the table, next to the damned biscuit tin."

Things were not going as expected. Not at all. "What is the matter?" He looked at the biscuit tin and asked guardedly, "Where did _that_ come from?"

"I had a visitor."

"A visitor?" He wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement, and then his face went chalk-white. "My mother?"

"No," she said irritably, "the bloody Queen of England popped in for tea."

"And you let her in?" He scowled at her. "For some damned biscuits?"

She glowered back at him. "Oh, for heaven's sake! I didn't ask for them, I didn't want them, and I don't want anything from her or you or anyone! Just bring me my own clothing so I don't have to wear your sister's old things. Better yet - let me go home and leave me alone."

"I can't let you go home. Not right now."

"Just why not? It's about time you told me why the hell you're keeping me prisoner here."

"I explained that...."

And, speaking of telling me things, why didn't you tell me about the delightful and charming matriarch of your family? You certainly told her plenty about _me_, for some reason." She grimaced in disgust.

"I did no such thing!"

She shook her head. "Don't lie to me, Snape! How else is it that she knows more about me than I do myself? Perhaps you can explain that? But, oh, she did have such _lovely_ things to say about me - and about you - and about my appropriation of the enchanting Narcissa's clothing and jewelry."

"What jewelry? I can't imagine my dear cousin left behind a single item of value."

"Well, Eris - oh, yes, we're on first-name basis, you know - was very put out about that necklace."

"What necklace? _Your_ necklace?" He looked at her closely. "Where is it?"

"_My_ necklace? That's not the way I see it. And certainly not the way your mother sees it."

"Where is it?" He stared at her searchingly.

"You _did_ give it to me, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"But why? You had no right to do that! It belongs to your cousin, doesn't it? How could you?"

"What are you talking about? Did you give it to _that woman_?"

"It was _her_ grandmother's, and she gave it to _her_ niece, did she not? I have no right to it - I didn't ask for it; and I don't want what belongs to someone else." She looked at him miserably. "It was rather humiliating, actually."

Snape looked murderous. Between clenched teeth, he again asked, "You gave her the necklace, didn't you?" He pounded his fist on the table. "How - how could you be so gullible?"

"WHAT?" She stared at him, aghast.

He continued in a strained voice, scarcely above a whisper. "That necklace never belonged to my mother. Her grandmother gave it to me - and I gave it to you - a long time ago. It is yours, not hers."

She sat down heavily, digesting this bit of information. "Why did she have to take it from me, then? _Why_ did she have to have it?"

Snape did not answer her. His face was bright red, and his lips were contorted with fury. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and headed for his mother's chamber. Halting mid-step, he spun around and strode swiftly down the stairs to the kitchen, where he found the old house-elf. She cowered in the corner at the sight of him, got down on her knees and began sobbing.

"Please, Master Severus! Fippy be sorry!" She began banging her head loudly on the floor.

"Oh, do stop that!" he snapped at her. "What ever is the matter with you?"

"Madame Snape asked Fippy so many questions about Miss Letha. I is sorry - I has to tell her, doesn't I? I is just a poor, foolish, wretched house-elf. I must to do as I is told...." The elderly elf was flailing her arms in hysterical helplessness.

"Stop," he repeated, this time in a soft but firm voice that she did not dare disobey. The elf settled down and stood waiting apprehensively for her punishment.

Snape knelt down and faced her, eye to eye. "Just tell me what happened."

Fippy had told his mother everything she knew. Although house-elves are generally not of the highest intelligence, they do have excellent memories. Fippy remembered in great detail the night, many years earlier, when he had come home from Ephemera Faraday's house. She knew Severus had given the necklace to his friend, and she recalled how happy he had looked, until he'd seen Master Malfoy.

Fippy remembered the girl's visit to the Snape house, how when he had spotted Letha in the parlor with his father, young Master Severus had ordered her to leave, hurling insults at her. "I doesn't know why you does that, Sir, but I supposes you has a reason." Snape turned his face away from the house-elf as her recital dredged up memories of that day. Of _course_ Letha had to believe he despised her. What on earth was the matter with that girl that she should have cared for him despite that, despite everything?

"Thank you Fippy", he said wearily. "You have been very helpful." He stood up.

She peered at him anxiously. "Master Severus will not send Fippy away, will he?"

"No, he will not. Go back to work."

As Fippy scampered off cheerfully, Snape headed back upstairs, his agitation increasing with every step. How dare she! A string of agonizing and excruciating curses came to mind. He was going to kill her. He was going to wring her neck like a chicken. He was going to....no, he was just going to get the necklace back,for now.

Snape slammed his hand against the door of his mother's room and marched in unceremoniously.

"What do you think you're doing, barging in like this? If you wish to speak to me, you knock politely."

He stared at her menacingly. Softly, very softly he said, "I believe you have something that does not belong to you."

She put her index finger up to the tiny gold ball around her neck and flicked it slightly. "You are mistaken. It _is_ mine. The harlot gave it back to me, as well she should have."

Her son screwed up his face. "Gave it BACK to you?" His voice had risen significantly in volume, despite his attempts to control it. Mother and son both wore expressions of intense dislike that accentuated the similarity in their features. "It was never yours in the first place!"

"It should have been. It was my grandmother's."

"Yes it was. But she gave it to me."

"As you wish." She smiled at him triumphantly. "But at any rate, it's mine now."

Severus shook his head. "No it is not. You will return it to me, and I will see that it goes back to its rightful owner."

"Your trollop."

"Do not speak of things you do not understand."

She emitted a high-pitched and artificial laugh. "I understand perfectly. I suppose you've locked her away here, and given her access to all your cousin's things, out of the kindness of your heart. As if you had one - when you treat your own mother so badly." Maliciously, she added, "I imagine that the _only_ way you can keep a woman _is_ by locking her up."

"I really don't care what you think, Madame." His voice dropped to a threatening hiss. "Give me back the necklace."

"I hardly think so," she answered, almost jocularly. "Just be a good lad and go away. Shut the door behind you." She waved him off.

Instead, he approached her, and spoke into her ear conspiratorially. "I have an offer to make you, a fair exchange."

She smirked at him dubiously, superiorly. He smirked back. "I have an invitation to Lucius and Narcissa's party in honor of their little boy. You, I'm afraid, do not. But I know you'd love to see the child." What Severus loved, was the effect his words were having on the color of her skin, which was turning exceptionally sallow underneath her makeup.

"I am sure it was an oversight. Perhaps the owl got lost...." she sputtered, her arrogant air all but dissolved.

"I suppose that is possible. Or perhaps, the oversight was intentional?" He allowed the words to sink in like barbs. Flatly, he made his offer. "Give me back the necklace, and you will come to the Malfoys' party, as my guest."

The very suggestion was a humiliation she could not tolerate. "Nonsense! I can go without you. After all...."

"Do you really think so?" He smiled at her, a cruel and thin-lipped smile. "I daresay _no one_ attends the Malfoys' soirees without an invitation. Surely you do not wish to find yourself tossed off the grounds by a surly troll security guard? Without an invitation, to a troll you are just another party crasher. Do you wish to risk it? Besides, let us not forget you are the 'grieving widow' of Balthazar Snape. As such, you are _persona non grata_. No matter how you actually felt about the dear departed."

She regarded him with silent fury. "Alternatively," he added, "you have the opportunity to see Narcissa, to hold her precious little boy, and to rejoin the social circle I know you must desperately miss."

The expression on Madame Snape's face indicated that she was sorely tempted, but she fingered the gold chain possessively. From what, he wondered, did she think it would protect her? Finally, she responded. "I do not think so."

He walked over and stood behind her, placing his hands on the back of her chair. "Here is something else to consider, then" he said silkily. "Look at yourself. Without any great stretch of the imagination, you could pass for a woman of 35."

"That is true," she said, admiring herself in the mirror. Then her eyes narrowed at him. "But surely you did not force your way into my room to flatter me?"

His voice became less agreeable. "Flattery is not my intention, my dear mother. I am simply making a point. You can come with me and enjoy the party, or you can upset me, in which case, you will find yourself looking in the mirror and seeing this." He waved his wand and the image that appeared in front of her was that of a wrinkled old hag, with liver spots, grey-hued skin and deep unattractive furrows criss-crossing her visage.

She sniffed. "You can play games with my reflection, but you can't actually do that to me!"

He pulled out a small purple vial and wriggled it between his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, but I can."

"You wouldn't dare!" she hissed, eyeing the vial suspiciously. "That is Dark Magic - you'd be back in Azkaban in a flash." She curled her lip contemptuously. "From what I have heard, one stay in that place does not induce any desire for a return visit."

He turned her chair around, so that he could bring his face uncomfortably close to hers. . "So, apparently you _were_ aware that I was in that dreadful place. Your concern for my well-being is touching, dear mother. But it would be worth going back to Azkaban, for the gratifying knowledge that I had ruined your life. Do you dare take that risk?"

Her tone changed drastically. "Oh Severus" she addressed him in a treacly voice, "I know we don't always get along as well as we ought, but you know - you must know - that I worried about you constantly while you were there. I just couldn't bear to see my only son - a prisoner.... I do care about you, you know." She flashed a grotesque smile, which, he supposed, was intended to convey motherly concern, and actually put out her fingers to his face.

He grabbed her wrist roughly and tossed it aside. He had to will himself not to grab her by the neck and squeeze the deceitful, perfidious breath out of her. "Oh, shut up," he growled menacingly. "You have one last chance. Make up your mind."

He would back down, she was certain; in confrontation with her, he had always backed down. The mother took it as an indication of her son's weakness; it never occurred to her, that it might be something else. She scanned his face for a sign of vacillation, any hesitancy that she might exploit, and saw none. She met only a stony resolve, a barely-repressed murderousness that frightened her. Furiously, silently, she removed the necklace and flung it to the floor.

"Accio aurum!" He grabbed the necklace as it flew up towards him. With remarkable aplomb, he declared "I am delighted that we will have the pleasure of your company, at the Malfoys' party, after all."

"_We_? You are going to embarrass me by bringing that trollop?"

He feigned an expression of bafflement. "I'm not sure what you mean - are you speaking of Miss Faraday,? Oh, but it is not she who will accompany me. No; I am bringing my true love."

She snorted disdainfully. "And who would that be?"

"Oh, you will be very pleased, no doubt". He smiled at her gleefully. "Good family, you cannot possibly criticize. No, I suppose you can always criticize. Wealthy, too." He paused, as she raised her eyebrows in surprise. He began to walk casually out of the room. In an offhand manner, he added, "You will meet him soon enough." As he shut the door behind him, it did his heart good to hear her shriek in horror.


	37. The inevitable f'ing dress

_It's all I have to bring to-day, __This, and my heart beside, __This, and my heart, and all the fields, __And all the meadows wide. __Be sure you count, should I forget, -- __Someone the sum could tell, -- __This, and my heart, and all the bees __Which in the clover dwell._

Emily Dickinson

He had accomplished what he'd set out to do. He'd retrieved the necklace, intimidated and distressed his mother (most deservedly), and set certain events in motion. After experiencing a fleeting moment of triumph, he felt no great sense of achievement or satisfaction. What he did feel was nauseous and weary. Clutching the necklace tightly in his left hand, he headed for Letha's room, this time with far less enthusiasm. He knocked again. "May I come in?" he asked, uncertainly. He suspected he might actually feel relieved if she sent him away.

There was no response, and he began to turn away from the door. As he turned, the door opened, and Letha stood in front of him, wearing the blue dress. "Thank you, Severus," she said solemnly.

"It suits you." More than that, he thought, it was lovely on her, gracefully tracing the lines ands curves of her form, the hue highlighting the color of her eyes. He opened his hand and showed her the necklace lying therein. "Turn around" he told her, and she did so, lifting her hair. He placed it around her neck, as he had done once before. His hands were shaking and he nearly dropped it, but he eventually managed to secure the clasp.

Letha turned back towards him and studied his drawn face with consternation. "Come here!" she ordered. She grasped his wrist and led him over to the bed. He followed her docilely, and when she tugged on his shoulders, he sat. Standing in front of him, she wrapped her arms around him, and lay his head on her bosom. She gently rocked him back and forth and whispered soothing words, as to a young child, tenderly stroking his hair. No one had ever, ever, held him like that before. He was relieved that at that moment she could not see his eyes.

In the protective circle of her embrace, his nausea dissipated and his mental state rapidly improved. The pain of maternal rejection was superceded by a very different type of ache. Gingerly, Severus wrapped his arms around her waist, and she did not protest. He planted his hands against the small of her back, willing them to stay put unless invited to do otherwise.

"You're trembling, Severus!" she exclaimed. "What can I do to make you feel better?" She gave him a delicious little squeeze.

He bit his tongue and said nothing. Letha looked down into his face, and her concerned gaze was met by a pair of glowing embers, black as anthracite. She sucked in her breath sharply. "Well , I think I can guess the answer to _that_ question." There was a hint of amusement in her voice.

Snape recognized that it was the witch's opportunity to take control of the situation; surely she would not miss the opportunity. She was going to kick him out; he was certain. However, she seemed in no hurry to decide his fate. She seemed to be considering the matter, and regarded him with a tiny, indecipherable smile on her lips.

In for a sickel, in for a galleon... "May I - kiss you?" It was a fairly harmless request, he thought, and he asked it as softly and meekly as he could manage.

"That depends. Who are you asking?"

"What do you mean? I don't understand."

She ran her fingertips down the nape of his neck, and he shivered slightly. "Yes you do."

She was right. He was simply not certain what answer she was looking for. Of course, that was the dishonest way to approach the matter. "Why does it matter?" He hoped it did not sound like an answer of expediency. It was not - not completely, at any rate. "Whether you remember the past, or not, you are still the same person I have always known you to be."

"Not a _bad_ answer, I suppose. Not a particularly good one either." She slid out from between his arms. "Thank you for the lovely dress." She looked at him in a calculating manner. "I assume, Mr. Snape, that you were not anticipating a _quid pro quo_. I would hope you do not have so low an opinion of me."

He reddened slightly and stammered "N-n-no of course not. I really only brought it for you because I thought you'd like it." It was true; he hadn't had any other consideration in mind - until his trip home from Dublin.

"I'm glad to hear that," she said with finality.

With whatever shreds of dignity he could muster, he nodded curtly. "Good evening, Miss Faraday", he said stiffly, and headed for the door.

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows archly. "Giving up that easily?"

Did she have any idea, he wondered, of how maddening this was? He silently walked back to where she stood, while she watched him closely, curiously. "I simply wanted to bring you something of your own. I hope you like it." She nodded, biting her lip. It was now she who blushed, as he brought his mouth close to her ear. "Of course, it was probably a mistake."

"A mistake?" she squeaked.

"Not very practical. You'd have had far more use for something less formal."

"But it's beautiful," she said, reaching out her arms to pull him to her.

He moved out of her reach, stabbing the air with his forefinger. "Flannel bedclothes! That would have been valuable on a chilly morning."

She maneuvered back toward him. "No doubt, but I appreciate…"

Seemingly oblivious to her attempted incursion, he once again stepped back, exclaiming "Undergarments!"

"What?"

"There's nothing as pleasant as putting on clean new undergarments." He paused as Letha started giggling, but Snape remained quite deadpan, as he added, "though l haven't the slightest idea how to buy witch's undergarments." She practically tackled him, but he continued on unfazed. "I shouldn't know how to select a proper size…"

"Oh really, Severus!" she huffed in exasperation, grabbing his wrists and firmly planting his hands where they might extract some valuable information. Somehow, it seemed to put an end to the discussion.

He opened his eyes and allowed them to adjust to the darkness. As he began to rise, fingers reached out and touched his hand. "I have to go," he whispered.

"If you must..." responded a sleepy voice.

He kissed her on the forehead and stood up. Once he was dressed, he sat down beside her. "Are you still awake?"

"Mm-hmm" she murmured.

"You mustn't let anyone know about this."

Letha propped herself up on her elbows. "I wasn't planning on it, but..."

Severus placed his finger against her lips. "I know how that must sound." He paused. "It is not - for the reason you might think. But you've met my mother. There are- things - that I must keep from her. And ... certain other people."

"Why? Are you embarrassed?"

"No."

"Afraid?"

He licked his lips. "I admit that is a part of it. But not merely for myself. I must consider the safety of others as well. Including you. The less that - certain people - understand, the safer we are."

"You intend to deceive these people."

"The successful use of deception is sometimes necessary to achieve even the most admirable results."

"The end justifies the means."

"Yes."

"Sometimes. But the end does not justify _all_ means." She brought her face close to his and whispered, "Remember, my love, you must be able to live in your own skin. You cannot shed it like a snake."

He did not answer, but squeezed her hand and slipped silently out of the room.


	38. A change of venue

﻿The next few weeks were, without a doubt, the most pleasurable Severus Snape had ever experienced. It was not simply the delight of physical intimacy, it was the sense of being wanted and welcome. And it was something more. Letha knew nothing of his past; in her eyes, he was inculpable. And she, she too was blameless. Whatever her past transgressions, minor to begin with, they had been wiped away along with her memory. Snape was a wizard plagued by a tendency to moodiness and melancholy, a restless spirit in whom the flaws of others quickly brought out the worst. But for a fleeting instant, there was nothing to disturb the repose of his spirit, nothing to unleash the disquiet of his choleric nature. Perhaps, eventually, one would have irritated the other - a thoughtless word, an act of trivial cruelty, or simply the erosion of ardor, bred in bored familiarity. None of that came to pass, however, because, Letha was merely a temporary boarder in the Snape household. Their time together passed far too swiftly. Finally, the day came when it was his disagreeable task to end this idyll. Letha packed her few belongings and Snape escorted her into the carriage he'd hired for their trip.

Half an hour, and not a word had been spoken. The carriage shook uncomfortably as it rolled over unpaved roads, the low branches of trees grazing the roof. Snape was utterly engrossed in a small antique tome with a grimy brown cover, binding a collection of yellow dog-eared pages. Letha sighed. Loudly. "Doesn't it give you a headache?"

"What?" He looked vaguely annoyed at the distraction.

"Reading in a moving vehicle. I tried, but the jostling of my eyeballs made me nauseous as anything."

"Mmph", he grunted, and his eyes sought the words he had been perusing when she had interrupted him.

Apparently, that was to be the extent of the conversation. She began nervously tapping her fingers against the side of the carriage. A snatch of a song entered her head:

_The__ moon and the stars on the water reflect __The shimmering shadow of your silhouette... _

She began tapping to the beat, and after a while began singing under her breath.

Snape slammed down the book in annoyance. "Of all the things you might recall, you picked that godawful song? It's sufficiently asinine when those shrieky women sing it, but honestly, if you can't even hold a tune..."

"Well! I didn't realize you found me so annoying. I suppose you are _thrilled_ to be foisting me on someone else."

He grimaced. "I would think you should be happy to be leaving a state of virtual imprisonment."

"I wish I could say that were true. I really do."

"Why are you making this so difficult?"

"I'm sorry to be such a vexation. I thought - I thought you'd feel _something_ more than relief at my departure." She fought, with moderate success, to hold back her tears.

He rolled his eyes. "There's really no point in bawling over the inevitable," he said irritably. "You can't stay locked up in that house forever. You know you will be much better off among other people, and receiving proper therapy."

"I wasn't bawling, you idiot!" she muttered under her breath.

He was silent a moment, then whispered something.

"What was that?"

"I said, '_I _do not shed a single tear at your departure.'"

"Then don't. That's your business."

"Do you know why?"

"You're sick of me. Tired of baby-sitting duty."

"Now who's being an idiot? As long as you were there, for that brief time, I actually looked forward to returning to that accursèd house. Are you not aware of that?"

"Then why are you so happy to see me leave?"

"I did not say that. I said 'I shall not shed a single tear.' Because, Miss Faraday," he concluded in a soft voice, "to weep is to make less the depth of grief."

"Oh." She could think of nothing more profound to say.

His voice took on a more businesslike tone. "Therefore, I am reading 'The Theoretical Basis of Organic Alchemy'. It is sufficiently complex to keep my mind off other matters."

"Really?" She was genuinely impressed.

"I've read through twenty pages in the past half hour. Of course", he added, with a hint of dismay, "it was the same page, 20 times over, and I have no idea what it said."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I suspected you would be."

"Severus, we could just turn around and go back, couldn't we?"

"No, we cannot. We are expected, and if we do not show up right on time, Madame Patil will be utterly convinced that I had abducted you against your will and subjected you to unspeakable tortures."

She smirked at him lasciviously. "Oh would you do that? Please?"

"Now, really, behave yourself, Miss Faraday," he admonished her. "Seriously, you can't possibly want to continue in this manner. You need proper treatment, and the Patils will provide the best available."

"I suppose. But at least you must promise that you will visit me. Frequently. With annoying frequency, until I have to tell you to stay away. And then come anyway."

He couldn't help but smile at her earnestness. "I promise I will visit you."

"Yes you will!" she responded in a threatening tone of voice. "You know, I am none too pleased about going to stay with strangers. Have I mentioned that?"

"Once or twice. Of course, to you, everyone is a stranger."

"Except you."

"Exactly. And I do not need any expertise in such matters to know that is not healthy. If you were not so isolated I am certain you would not have developed this - this - fondness - for me."

"No? Why, wasn't I 'fond' of you before this all happened?"

"Not really; I don't think you much liked me at all. Hardly anyone does. And I consider that a blessing."

Letha smiled. "I believe that you would."

Severus abruptly changed the topic. "I hope you realize there is a long waiting list for the Patils' private clinic. They are highly renowned, and you are fortunate to have the benefit of their personal care."

"Apparently, you have influence."

"No, you do. I told you, Mme. Patil is your closest friend. She made sure you would go to the head of the queue. I very much doubt she would do anything on my behalf."

"Does she work with her husband?"

"Part of the time. She spends the rest of her time in a Muggle medical training program, and is also raising three young children."

"Very impressive."

"I am certainly impressed. And she - is even more so. Even as a girl, I recall that she had quite an ego. I think she was a bit put out when you were made Prefect of Ravenclaw, rather than she. Even if you were her best friend."

"I hope you told her the better woman won."

Severus shifted uncomfortably. "I did no such thing."

"No wonder I wasn't fond of you."

"Exactly." The carriage stopped. "And now you will have your opportunity to reacquaint yourself with Madame Healer, and to rid yourself of me." He called up to the driver to announce their arrival.

**Author note:** Snape says to Letha "to weep is to make less the depth of grief." The line is from King Henry VI, part III, spoken by Richard in the following passage:

_I cannot weep; for all my body's moisture  
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart:  
Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burthen;  
For selfsame wind that I should speak withal  
Is kindling coals that fires all my breast,  
And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.  
To weep is to make less the depth of grief._

If you harbor any doubts whether Snape would quote such a passage from Shakespeare, consider the context; the passage continues:

_Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me  
Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy death,  
Or die renowned by attempting it.  
_  
- Seems to me, that's got Snape written all over it!


	39. Greetings to an old friend and farewell ...

Letha looked out of the carriage window. In front of her was an expanse of garden, behind which stood a moderately large house, quite newly constructed in a simple modern style. The driver stepped up to the door and knocked. A house-elf answered and the driver handed him a card. While the elf went off to inform his master, Snape and Letha descended from the carriage. The house-elf returned and bid them enter. "Madame Patil will be with you momentarily." He bowed stiffly and led them into an anteroom that was part-salon, part-waiting room. The pungent aroma of curry wafted in as the house-elf disappeared through a rear door. Feeling a bit nervous, Letha looked to Severus for reassurance. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes flickering over the eastern-influenced decor of the room.

They both started as the door burst open with a loud bang. Two little girls came tumbling in, giggling and squealing. The first one came to a halt right in front of Snape. The second girl ran into her; they both fell down on their rear ends. The first one stared at the pale sour-faced man with the greasy dark hair, in wide-eyed terror. "Mummy!" she shrieked.

They heard rapid footsteps approaching. "What is the matter, Parvati?" a woman's voice asked anxiously. A swarthy young woman, short and plump, flew into the room and hurried over to the little girls. Her eyes fell on Snape, and narrowed suspiciously. She snatched up both children in her arms, as little legs and arms and long pigtails went flying. "Stay away from them!" she hissed.

Snape regarded her impassively, but Letha called out with annoyance, "He's not going to eat them, you know!"

The woman turned to Letha; at first she appeared startled, but then her face lit up. "Letha! I am so happy to see you!" She lowered the squirming girls to the ground, ran over and gave Letha a joyful hug, which she returned politely.

"You don't remember me, do you?" She squeezed Letha's hands. "Raj and I will do our best to fix that."

"I would be very grateful if you can do so, Madame Patil," she responded.

"Oh, Letha, please call me Anji. You know, you have always been my best and dearest friend."

"Severus told me as much."

"Never would I have believed," she whispered, "you could be on a first-name basis with - THAT!"

Letha walked over to Snape and put her hand around his arm. "That's it, Severus - please, let's leave!"

"No, no, Letha, I am sorry, I didn't realize..." Anjana Patil apologized. "After all, Mr. Snape has been kind enough to bring you to us."

Letha looked uncertainly at Snape. His expression was completely unreadable. "I cannot take you back with me at any rate," he said coldly. "You must remain here."

Letha sighed unhappily. "I suppose."

Anjana Patil looked down at her daughters, sitting quietly on the floor. "I must say, I've never seen Parvati and Padma behave so well."

At that moment, the door opened. A tall, dark, athletic-looking man with thick black wavy hair strolled cheerfully into the room. The two little girls jumped up and ran to him with outstretched arms. "Daddy! Daddy!"

The man took them both in his arms and they hugged him tightly. "Good afternoon Miss Faraday, Mr. Snape. Welcome to our home." He kissed each of the girls, who resembled him far more than their mother, and gently placed them back on the floor. Bowing to his guests, he said, "I am Dr. Govindaraj Patil; I believe you have already met my beautiful wife, Anjana." As he looked towards his wife, his eyes reflected an expression of rapt adoration. Letha had to smile.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Healer Patil," said Letha.

"Ah, please call me Raj. You are not just a new patient, but a dear friend. He turned to Snape. "Come with me, Mr. Snape; there are certain matters we must discuss. We will leave the ladies to become reacquainted."

"Raj..." began his wife, in a warning tone.

"I will be back shortly. You and Letha, I am sure, have much to talk about." With that, he beckoned Snape out into the hallway. When they were out of earshot of the women, Patil turned to Snape. In a far less genial tone, he said, "I am afraid my wife does not trust you. Given your past history, I cannot say I blame her."

Snape's nostrils flared and he clenched his fists behind his back. Why were they so intent on persecuting him? He had done nothing but seek their help for his wife's friend; why did this arrogant swaggering peacock and his know-it-all wife have to treat him like a criminal? He could feel his face growing hot, but he endeavored to keep his voice steady and calm. "I have brought Miss Faraday to you because of your," he forced himself to say it, "excellent reputation; why would I do so if I wished her any harm?"

Patil regarded him intently. "I do not know what your intentions might be. I do find it quite curious that you happened to come upon Letha so conveniently, at just the time that this misfortune befell her. I have learned that she argued quite strenuously before the Ministry, in favor of keeping you incarcerated in Azkaban. That makes it difficult to comprehend why you would care to assist her in any way. You know, the possibility that you are the cause of her present condition is one that cannot be completely ruled out."

Snape screwed up his face. "Then why on earth do you suppose I would seek to help her now?"

"If you are the cause of her condition, you may have fear of the consequences, of returning to Azkaban. Or, perhaps, you may feel some degree of guilt? Or..."

"I assure you...."

Patil calmly held up his hand. "Or possibly, you have been completely forthright. I do not say that is impossible. Tell me, Mr. Snape, do you care for Letha?"

"I am concerned about her well-being...."

"That is what I am trying to understand. Why have you gone to such trouble on her behalf? Can you explain this to me?"

Snape considered. There were a number of good and true answers to the question, but he dared not speak any of them. Only one honest answer would do. "She was a very good friend to me, when we were young. I have never forgotten that."

"Now that is interesting," said Patil. "Anjana and Letha have been the closest of friends since childhood, and yet, Anjana cannot recall her friend ever so much as mentioning your name. And, other than a random insult now and then, neither could my wife recall a single conversation between you and Miss Faraday. That hardly supports your claim, does it, sir?"

Snape flushed and immediately knew the Healer would take it as embarrassment or distress at having been caught in a lie. "Mr. Patil, what you say is true. But there was good reason for what I did."

"I am certain you believe it is so. I do not require an explanation for your past actions; they are of no interest to me. I do thank you, however, for bringing her to us, whatever your motives might be."

The last vestige of color drained from his face; he shut his eyes momentarily, compelling himself to ignore the obvious insult. It was quite clear to Snape that the man was intentionally goading him. 'No', he thought irritably, 'if he expects to be entertained with a stormy diatribe, he will be sorely disappointed.' "I have brought her here with the expectation that you _will_ help her, and I will look forward to seeing her improvement when I visit."

Patil shook his head gravely. "I am afraid you cannot do that. I cannot permit you to visit."

"What? B-but I promised her that I would!" he sputtered.

"Can you not see the danger in that, Mr. Snape? She seems to have grown quite dependent on you. I ask that you stay away, in the interest of fostering her independence."

Snape considered Patil's words. It was true, he had said exactly the same thing to her himself. "Then I will remind her of that," he said acidly, "in my letters."

Again, the Healer shook his head. "You may not write to her either."

"This is utterly outrageous! If she should correspond with _me_ - shall I leave her notes unanswered? She will…" _Never forgive me_, he thought. _Believe I am thoughtless and capricious and merely took advantage of her captivity_. _Hate me_. "Be rather insulted, don't you think? I told you, I _promised_ her I would visit."

"And you will have the opportunity to keep that promise," Patil reassured him, "but not until she has had a chance to acclimate to her new surroundings and has begun to stand on her own feet. Until then, no visits, no correspondence." Dr. Patil watched curiously as Snape sank down on the divan. "Is there some factor you think might influence my decision on this matter, Mr. Snape?"

Snape looked up at him, his expression inscrutable. "No, none that I can think of."

"One must always take into consideration all relevant data; oughtn't one? I thought you might have something to add."

"No," he responded flatly, "I do not."

"Very well. Then the house-elf will show you out."

Snape stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Certainly, I must first bid farewell to Miss Faraday - and to your wife, of course. It is only proper."

"I will be happy to convey your message. I'm certain no offense will be taken."

"But I must..." he protested, a bit stridently.

Once again, Patil regarded him with interest, in a way he found highly discomfiting. "Why is it so essential, Mr. Snape?"

Snape rolled his eyes in exasperation. "It is a fundamental social amenity".

"If that is all, you need not concern yourself. Good day, Mr. Snape."

A few minutes later, a very distraught young wizard found himself standing outside the entrance to the Patil residence. In frustration, he pulled out his wand, and pointed it at a small tree out in a field across from the house. He uttered the word "Eruptus!" and the tree blew apart, scattering leaves, birds and shreds of bark into the air. The violent demolition gave him

a momentary satisfaction, but as he recognized the childishness and futility of annihilating a perfectly harmless and innocent tree, he felt worse than ever.

Snape stalked over to the carriage, and told the driver to go on ahead without him. The driver was much relieved that he did not have to endure the return trip with a passenger who was so clearly in fiendishly foul mood. As soon as the driver took off, Snape Disapparated.

That evening, Severus paid a visit to Narcissa's old room. There was nothing there to indicate that it had recently been occupied. The bed was freshly made with clean linens, and anything that Letha may have displaced had been returned to its accustomed location. Fresh flowers sat in a vase on the nightstand; a cheery fire glowed in the grate, but there was no sense of any human presence. He sat down on the flowery silk bedspread and ran his fingers across its smooth, cool surface. Bringing his face near the pillow, he took a deep breath - but wrinkled his nose and drew away quickly when he smelled nothing but the flowery fragrance favored by his cousin. He stood up, shut the light, closed the door, and headed for the dungeon, seeking the solace of a simmering cauldron.

----------------------------------------------------------------

_4 November_

_My dear Severus,_

_I will not presume to guess why you left without saying goodbye. Perhaps you were in a hurry to pursue some Important and Mysterious Business, or maybe you were just being your cantankerous Snape-y self. Of course, I prefer to believe that you were simply too overwhelmed with heartache to face me. If it was your intention to make me hate you, you have succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. Nevertheless, I miss you inordinately. The Patils are very kind, but I miss you, Severus. Did I mention that I miss you? I look forward to seeing you soon._

_All my love,_

_Letha_

----------------------------------------------------------------

_14 November_

_Dear Severus,_

_I still haven't heard from you, and I still miss you. I suppose you're not the sort to write sugary words (apparently, I am), but even a brief owl will do - you promised! I am enclosing a small piece of parchment for your convenience. If you have no time to write a proper letter, simply mark it with an 'X' and send it back. How obliging is that on my part?_

_We have begun retraining in magic and other skills. You will be pleased to know that, so far, I have caused no catastrophic incidents with my efforts._

_Love,_

_L._


	40. The Invitation

_W1 d b m e20s be 150/160 5-10 w/ __bj__scof__ tat-__snk_

Witness 1 describes b_lack? blond? brown-haired? __Big__-__ars__e_ male, early 20's, b_lue__? brown? black? bloodshot?_ eyes, 150-160 pounds, 5 feet 10 inches tall, with

_SLAM! _

A fist came down on the keys of the old Smith Corona. "I need a drink!" he practically wept, to no one in particular, in fact to no one at all; the other desks were all empty. He picked up a paper cup, stained with the dregs of cold coffee, and raised it in a mock-toast. "Here's to you, Chief Inspector! May your fat carcass grow rotting carbuncles in the festering sewers beyond the gates of Hell!"

In theory, his shift had ended two hours ago. However, an ultimatum had been delivered: hand in a complete set of reports, or hand in your badge. That was why he still sat there at his desk, engulfed in a sea of paper and self-pity. Ten hours and this was the result: a wee pile of neatly typewritten reports sat on the far right-hand corner of his desk. A huge mass of hastily-scrawled notes flowed from the left-hand corner, sprawling in unrestrained disarray nearly the entire width of the desk.

After a while, the brain stops functioning. His certainly had. He lovingly picked up the slender stack of complete reports, and slipped them carefully in his bottom drawer. Then he opened the top drawer and swept 'The Blob', as he'd come to think of it, into the drawer. Emmet and the others were probably already waiting for him at Mulligan's. Well, not waiting exactly, but more likely, having a few laughs at his expense. He closed the drawer.

Stood up.

And left.

In his flat, Adams took off his uniform and, being in a rather disagreeable and languid mood, headed for the kitchen wearing nothing but undershorts and socks. He pessimistically perused the icebox and canvassed the cupboards, scraping together a highly unappetizing dinner consisting of the remnants of an old tin of pilchards, two stale rusks and a flat beer. Then he sat down to savor this mouth-watering repast. He would have skipped it altogether, except that he was absolutely starving.

As he raised one stale roll to his mouth, he heard a loud crack from the next room. Adams stood up quietly, grabbed his truncheon, and tiptoed around the corner. As he looked into the living-room, his jaw dropped and his nightstick fell on the floor with a clatter. "What in bloody hell are you doing here?!"

"Your language is execrable, Mr. Adams. And, I might add, so is your attire."

"I live here. I'll dress however I damn please."

"Suit yourself."

"Yes, well..." he muttered, "maybe I will." He disappeared into the bedroom and returned shortly in jeans and a black sweatshirt. "Snape, couldn't you have just knocked, like normal people?"

"Perhaps, but I suspect you'd have been terribly disappointed if I had." He sprawled out on the couch, as if it belonged to him.

"I had a hell of a time removing those bloodstains - and the rug - hopeless, simply hopeless."

"I've taken care of it, as you can see, and I've brought you this." Snape tossed over two large down pillows.

"A bloody prince, you are! Took you long enough, didn't it? So what is it you want now?" he snapped.

Snape smiled in an odd way that Adams wasn't sure he liked. "I've simply come to invite you to a party."

"A party? Are you out of your mind, Snape? If you're making a party, it better be on account of Norma Jean's all cured."

"Norma Jean?"

"Oh, right - Letha. I still think of her as Norma Jean. And you're just my delinquent little cousin Stephie."

"Right, and we'll soon have to even that score," said Snape enigmatically.

"What d'you mean by that? How _is_ she doing, by the way?"

"Much better, I believe. She is receiving the best care available. Which may not be saying much"

"Say hello for me."

"I can't do that."

"Right - she wouldn't remember me, would she?"

"It's not that." Snape said softly. "I'm not allowed. Not to visit, not to write...."

"Can't you phone her?" asked Adams.

Snape rolled his eyes. "We do not use telephones. If we did, I would not be allowed to do that either."

"Why in bloody hell not?"

"What a mouth you've got!" Snape scolded. "Her Healer believes that Miss Faraday has become too dependent upon me, which is unhealthy. He feels it would be counterproductive in their efforts to foster independence and...."

"What a load of shite! Severus, that girl is in _love_ with you. Now maybe love is a sickness, and being in love with a bastard sonofabitch like you has to be full-blown mental illness, but christalmighty, _I_ wouldn't stand for it."

"Mr. Adams, there are things you do not understand. In my position, you might have the luxury of expressing your righteous indignation; unfortunately, I do not." He hesitated, but continued. "There are times I wish I could switch places with Miss Faraday, erase the past and start anew, though it is not really that simple, is it? Letha said to me, "R_emember, my love _You must be able to live in your own skin. You cannot shed it like a snake." She had no idea...... Many people distrust me. The doctor's rules may be irrational and unjustified, but if I should disobey, I shall surely be blamed for any purported delay in recovery."

"So you decided - fuck 'em all, I'm throwing a party! Is that it?"

"No, you dunderhead, that is not 'it'." Snape glared at him, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. I am not the host. The party I spoke of is a social obligation for me, a unique opportunity for you."

"Go on."

"The guests will all be witches and wizards of high society. The party is in honor of the birthday of a young child, the scion of, I daresay, the wealthiest and most powerful wizard family in England."

"Really? And what am I supposed to be, the entertainment for the evening? 'Ladies and gentlemen, watch me turn the whatzit -– Muggle - into a slug. Then step right up with your salt shakers....!" Adams looked at his visitor, whose mouth had contorted into an odd shape. "Y'know, Snape, there's no law against laughing."

"Good, then I hope you will freely express your amusement at what I am about to tell you."

"And what would that be?" Adams asked suspiciously.

"I am offering you a highly-coveted invitation to a fete at the mansion of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy....."

"Go on."

".....as.....

......my date."

He had misheard. He must have misheard. "You've gone completely bonkers, haven't you?"

"Oh no, I am extremely serious."

"Why the hell would you pick me for this honor?"

"I'm afraid you there was no one else I could ask."

"For a date? That's just sad, Snape, really sad."

"What is sad is that I must hope and pray that you are not a complete idiot, and I have little confidence in that regard. I believe you Muggles have a phrase, 'coming out of the closet'?"

Adams stared at him open-mouthed and then collapsed in a paroxysm of laughter. "I suppose when you hied off to my room with your lady-friend, you spent the time discussing drapery patterns? You're not _really_ a fairy, are you? What the hell is this all about?"

Snape mouthed the words 'drapery patterns' and shook his head in amusement, thinly disguised as exasperation. "This is a _very_ serious matter. Perhaps it was not the best plan to begin with, but I've already set it into motion. Now there is no choice. I must attend this party with my..." he hesitated and then continued in a choked voice, "Irish paramour. By the name of Eamon FitzGerald."

"And who might that be?"

"That would be you, of course."

"Of course. Sure. Knew that was coming. But - why?"

"I assume you recall our friend George Bailey? Since last we met, he has been an involuntary and unwelcome guest in my home. I will soon be able to turn him over to the proper Ministry authorities. I know he will present a version of events in which I am the villain and he is somehow the hero."

"And from what you told me, they'll believe him, won't they?"

"Undoubtedly, except that there is a great man who will vouch for me unconditionally."

Adams snorted. "You'd better watch your back, then. Great men do whatever best serves their purposes."

Snape nodded in agreement. "You are absolutely right. However, the man of whom I speak is a great wizard by virtue of character, not of station, wealth or power, though he has all of those in abundance."

"You're a lucky man to know such a person. And to have earned his confidence."

"I am indeed."

"But what does this have to do with the party?"

"I am getting to that. Mr. Bailey will be most anxious that Lucius Malfoy should learn of the events that transpired, adjusted to suit his purposes. Once Malfoy finds out what occurred, I would fear not only for my own safety, but for yours and Letha's as well. It might also, ultimately cause more far-reaching consequences if..... I think I've already said too much. Suffice it to say, it is very important that Bailey's depiction of events must appear to be utterly implausible."

"Y'know, these people might not be too surprised to find out you're..." He fluttered his fingers. "But as for me..."

"As for you, your role is quite challenging. Mr. FitzGerald, you are a wizard who spends most of your time in relative hermitage at your estate in Dublin. You are a man of wealth and breeding." He paused and muttered, "God help us!" and shook his head. "You while away your time on an unsuccessful attempt to write a great novel. You have no interest in events outside your immediate concerns, and are remarkably ignorant of the affairs of the world."

"If I'm always holed up at my estate in Ireland, how did I meet you, sugarplum?."

Snape glared at him malevolently. "This is not funny! Consider that your very life may hang on your ability to convince a great many people that you are the very person I am describing."

The policeman nodded with great mock solemnity. "We happened to meet at a shop in Dublin called Peckham's, which deals in potion ingredients. We were drawn together by a common interest in the subject. And recently, you, or someone who fits your general description, has been seen about wizard Dublin spending lavish sums, apparently in preparation to attend a social affair."

"Wizard Dublin? Really? Would you find - leprechauns there?"

"I'd rather not say."

"There are; aren't there? This should be interesting."

"Mr. Adams, would you please forget the damned leprechauns? This is very serious. If the ruse is detected, we are in serious trouble."

"Let's see if I have this straight. What you've got in me is an impoverished overworked copper; I haven't been to Ireland since I was a lad in Ulster, and I've never been to Dublin. And I'm supposed to convince the great and mighty Oz that I'm your wealthy gay wizard boyfriend from Dublin? And I might add, we practically look like twins separated at birth!"

"Personally, I do not see any resemblance, though the similarity in body habitus is a happy coincidence. I was able to procure appropriate garments for you, and make it seem that you've been about the town of late."

Adams thought that he best not suggest that, in fact, the resemblance between them was probably in no wise a coincidence. He would, no doubt, have come to know their mutual ladyfriend if he didn't bear a singular resemblance to his new 'paramour'. His eyes flickered over Snape's wand and he decided - no, that would not be wise to mention, not at all. "By the way, Snape, these people at the party - they don't know you very well, do they? I hope."

"In fact, I have known most of them all my life. Our hosts are my cousin and her husband. The guests are mostly former classmates and - colleagues. And my own mother will be accompanying us."

"I see you must have a close family."

"Mr. Adams, you probably know more about me, in some ways, than my mother. And I prefer to keep it that way."

"Ah, Severus, maybe if you had a mummymommy you could've talked to, you wouldn't have needed to explore alternative lifestyles. And you would've been a nicer bloke."

"Adams, you are not giving me much cause for optimism that we will leave the party as living beings. It will be held on the evening of December the ninth 9th, the child's birthday. Before then, I will try to transform you into a wealthy gay wizard from Dublin." He looked doubtful. "I hope."

"That's very catchy", said Adams. "Let's see...

A wealthy gay wizard from Dublin

Had some habits his soul-mate found troublin'

He had a great yen -

But it wasn't for men -

Um - - -"

Snape added "You might say he kept both cauldrons bubblin'" His eyes widened in astonishment at the realization that the words had popped out of his own mouth.

Davy Adams grinned broadly. "So - the secret is out!"

Snape narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Secret? What secret?"

"You DO have a sense of humor. Even if that line was terrible."

"Well, I hope you will keep that bit of information to yourself, Mr. 'FitzGerald. We have a lot of work ahead of us."

"We sure do. For one thing, you can't go around calling me "Mr. FitzGerald" like I was the bloody bank president. He put his hand on his chest dramatically, batted his eyelashes and simpered, "Eamon, my love, wouldn't you like to join me under the table?"

The two men looked at each other and, like mirror images, wrinkled their faces in disgust and laughed.

Snape jumped as the phone rang just then, and Adams answered it. He knew it had to be Emmet, heckling him about taking so long. Before picking it up, he asked, "Does Cousin Stephie want to join the chaps down at Mulligan's?"

"Those halfwits? I don't think so, thank you." Before Ddisapparating, he warned Adams, "You'd better watch how much you drink."

As Snape began to disappear, Adams shouted after him, "Yes, dear!"


	41. Questions about Snape's past

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 41

Anjana Patil and Letha Faraday sat on the floor of the nursery. Anji held the baby, Sabita, in her arms; the little one's chubby face lay on her mother's shoulder in cherubic repose. Letha smiled as she felt Anjana's head against her own shoulder; she was grateful to be included in this tableau of domestic intimacy. Then she noticed that the woman's breathing had become slow and even, and that her hands were loosening their hold on the child. Letha gently extricated Sabita from her mother's arms and held her close. Anjana's dark-circle-rimmed eyes popped open in alarm.

"Shh", whispered Letha. "It's alright, I've got her."

Anjana turned red with embarrassment. "Did I fall asleep? What is the matter with me?" she chastised herself.

"Anji, you're exhausted, utterly exhausted. You can't go on like this!"

"Just seven more months, then the training program at St. Bartholomew's will be over. I just have to get through it. Then I will take off some time before residency." She paused. "If I can."

Letha tugged on the time-turner that hung on a chain around the doctor's neck. "You'd be much better off without this thing. So what if you take an extra year or two?"

"Or three or four? Maybe I can just do it at my leisure, in my spare time," she said in a sarcastic tone. Then she lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry. Letha, I told you, I have made certain commitments.

How would I explain to my Muggle colleagues why I was taking a leave of absence from my internship?"

"How about the obvious answer - you have three little children at home? Not to mention your work here with Raj! I guarantee you - none of your colleagues has one of these stupid time-turner things - they must make some adjustments to fit in all the pieces of their lives."

"No! There are two other women with young children and one who is 7 months pregnant. They are not taking off time."

Letha shook her head in amazement. Is that the way the Muggles do things? Are they stupid or crazy?"

"That's just the way it's always been done. You can't shirk your responsibility."

"Anji, taking care of your children does not constitute 'shirking your responsibility'." Letha shook her head in amazement. "If that's the way they think, I'm glad I'm not a Muggle, and that I don't have to associate with them!"

"My parents are Muggles!" Anjana snapped. "I spent the first 10 years of my life as a Muggle!"

She frowned. "You used to be much more open-minded."

"Open-minded? I'm sorry, but this is just madness!"

"Look, Letha, Muggle doctors were men, traditionally. If they had families, it was the wife who took care of everything. They still haven't adjusted to the changes."

"You know what I think? It's just an excuse - they get very well-educated cheap labor this way. They've no incentive to change, if you go along with it." Letha continued to expound on her theory of exploitation. At some point, she felt Anjana's head fall against her shoulder again. The woman had fallen asleep. Letha stopped talking, and sat silently there on the floor, with the sleeping baby in her arms, the sleeping mother against her shoulder, and the two sleeping girls on the beds across from her.

Letha's legs were beginning to fall asleep as well, when she heard the door creak and footsteps approached. Raj Patil knelt down next to his wife, picked her up and moved her on to the bed. Then he silently held out his hand to help Letha stand up. She gratefully stretched her legs and gently lay the baby in her crib. Raj whispered to her, "I will put Anji to bed. You should get to sleep too."

Letha shook her head. "Unlike your wife, I am a lady of leisure. I'm really not tired; maybe I'll go to the library and read."

Dr. Patil left, carrying Anjana to her room.

A little while later, Letha was sitting in the library, staring into a copy of _The Theoretical Basis of Organic Alchemy_, the same book Severus had been reading - or trying to read - in the carriage, the day he'd accompanied her and then disappeared without a word. She sighed in dismay. What he'd done made no sense to her. Nor did the book in her hands. When Raj Patil walked into the library, she had no difficulty tearing herself away from the less-than-fascinating material.

Letha confronted him in an accusatory tone. "You know she shouldn't be working this hard!"

"It is her decision, not mine. I cannot tell her what to do."

"I respect that, but, it is so unfair and wrong to treat people that way."

"I agree - she is working much too hard, but she does not like if I say so." He paused. "Anjana has told me you have always been deeply concerned about unfairness. About right and wrong. I suppose that is why you went into law."

"Do you think I will ever be able to return to that profession, or I will spend the rest of my life wandering about in a perpetual fog?"

Patil smiled wanly. "We all wander around in a perpetual fog. It is the human condition."

"I suppose, but I guess my fog is a little thicker than most." She glanced down at the book she'd been examining. "Particularly when it comes to trying to comprehend the actions of a certain person... who seems to have simply dumped me on your doorstep, like an unwanted package."

"He is still on your mind, then?"

"Once in a while," she responded. (If you define 'once in a while' as 'a hundred times a day and preventing me from sleeping at night', she thought.)

"As time passes and you become reconnected with the world, you will find other things to occupy your mind."

Logically, what he said made sense. After all, she only knew Snape superficially, artificially. For a few weeks, he was her only human contact, her only memory, even if that memory span was only as long as her brief incarceration in the flowery captivity of Narcissa's bedchamber. Surely, it was no more than a temporary infatuation, that would eventually fade away. "I'm sure you're right."

"Are you still corresponding with him?"

Letha chose not to quibble with his use of the word 'corresponding', which implied that there was a two-way flow of mail.

"I write an occasional note, just to keep him informed of my progress", she answered coolly. "If he does not respond some time soon, I shall assume he has no interest and give it up."

"I think that is a good idea." He examined Letha's dejected face. "You would not be so distressed if you knew..." She looked up at him sharply and he stopped. "Never mind."

"If I knew what? Raj, there is just nothing more infuriating than 'Never mind'."

"I apologize - you are right. But I should not speak when I do not know for sure myself."

"Know what for sure?" she persisted.

His face grew very grave. "If your Mr. Snape was a Deatheater."

Letha blinked in disbelief. She had read the accounts of the Deatheater trials in the Daily Prophet, with their appalling lists of charges. What they had done seemed unthinkable, but it also seemed to her as something distant, something that had happened long ago, perhaps before she was even born. Certainly, Severus had never indicated that he had any connection to what had happened, nor had she ever contemplated such a thing. "Is it possible?"

"There are reasons to believe it is so. And if it is, you must understand why it is necessary to sever any connection you have with him" Raj Patil proceeded to describe some of the horrors that had gone on over the past decade, how the Deatheaters had spread misery, terror and death. Raj's own brother had been tortured to death. He had been a psi-cologist, and refused to share personal information about his patients. As he spoke of his brother, Raj Patil lost all semblance of the calm professional, the cheerful husband and father to which Letha had become accustomed in the preceding weeks. He spoke in a hushed, broken voice, his eyes red and glistening.

When he finished, Letha found it impossible to respond right away. Finally, she was able to offer her condolences. She had to agree - if Snape had any part in such things, she would have nothing to do with him. "Isn't there any way to find out if Snape was in fact a Deatheater?"

Raj closed his eyes tiredly and considered. "I cannot. But perhaps, you can get that information."

"He's not written back to me at all. Surely he's not going to start responding because I ask "Were you ever a Deatheater? A follower of Lord - what was it - Voldemort?" Patil winced at the name. "If I should ask him if he truly is a deeply horrible person, shall I expect an answer?"

Raj shook his head tersely. "That was not what I had in mind. You know, Letha, you work for the Ministry of Magic, division of criminal prosecution. You are entitled to see those records, though I am not."

"But I am not working there now. I'm not sure they will simply hand me confidential records, just like that..."

"You are a clever girl. I would not be surprised if you were able to figure out how to get your hands on those records."

As she mulled it over, it seemed like an excellent idea. However, a thought occurred to her. "I don't suppose you want to see those records yourself, do you?"

"No, I would not ask you to show them to me. But I am sure you realize that you cannot make a clearheaded conclusion without verifiable fact. Under ordinary circumstances, I do not believe that love requires a rational basis, but this is a special circumstance. Do you not agree?"

"Yes, but I'm really not in love with him." Raj looked at her doubtfully. "Really, " she assured him, shaking her head emphatically.

"I am glad to hear it."

They bid one another good night; and Letha headed for her room, already considering how she would acquire the information she needed to better answer the question - just who was Severus Snape?


	42. A fallacious theory is proposed

Chapter 42

_30 November_

_Dear Severus:_

_Yesterday, Anjana took me to St. Mungo's to see my mother. It is so frustrating - I understand that she is my mother, but do not remember her at all. She, on the other hand, has fond memories of her young daughter Letha, and repeatedly asked me to bring the girl to see her. I, of course, was a complete stranger to her. All in all, it was a very touching, emotional reunion - two batty women with no connection except the happenstance of blood._

_I can't help wondering - given my current condition, which may well be permanent, and my unfortunate family history - tell me honestly, Severus - have you concluded that you want nothing to do with me because of that? I would understand if that were the case; I would just like to know. _

_In truth, I no longer expect a response from you, but I will ask you this question anyway: were you ever a Deatheater? (I would not be surprised if you were - you seem to have a knack for inflicting torture most exquisite - on me, at least.) I would prefer an answer from you rather than from any other source. _

_Love,_

_Letha_

Later on, Letha regretted sending this particular letter, or more particularly, its ridiculous parenthetical. She was embarrassed to think that she had spoken of the Deatheaters, and of their abhorrent crimes, in such a flippant manner. She did not know that the letter had joined a growing pile that sat unopened in a drawer in Severus Snape's bedroom. He had stopped reading them; it was too frustrating. Besides, he had other things to think about, and could not waste his time dwelling on that over which he had no control.

-

Lol Plunkett drained his glass. "'E 'ates us - it's's simple as that!" he opined.

"No, he don't. I think he's just outta sorts cause he got chewed out about his reports," countered Tommy McTigue.

"'He don't look outta sorts to me, an' I know him better than either a you two lunkheads. Tell the truth, I think he looks pretty cheerful, much as a bassett hound can look cheerful. He's been avoidin' us, alright - but I think he's up ta somethin'".

"Maybe you're right, Emmet. So what is it ya think 'e's up to?"

Emmet Harris took a thoughtful sip from his glass and grinned conspiratorially. "I think he's got a girl."

McTigue's eyes widened. "Adams? Oh God, tell me it ain't Annie the Witch."

"Nah - if it was Annie, he'd already've been back here. 'Fact, he'd'a probably moved in here by now, I'd wager. Drownin' himself in a bottle. No, gen'lemen, I think Davy Adams's been havin' secret rondy-voos with - Marilyn Monroe."

The other two men looked at Harris as if he were insane. Then Plunkett guffawed. "Figgers - a dead chick. That pickle-faced stringbean look 'alf-dead 'imself mosta the time."

Harris reprimanded him sternly. "Hey, watch what you say 'bout that pickle-faced stringbean. He's my best friend."

"So, what are you prattlin' about?" asked McTigue

"Couple months ago - this bird - she calls herself Marilyn Monroe - no, no that's wrong." He smacked the side of his head with the palm of his hand, then jabbed his index finger in the air. "Norma Jean, that was her name. Damned if she di'n't come in here to meet me. So - I get up to take a leak, an' when I get back, she's throwin' herself at ol' Davy. He was just sittin' there, blushin' 'n' grinnin' like a schoolgirl, he was. Completely moonstruck! I bet it's her what's keepin' him busy."

McTigue pounded his fist on the table good-naturedly. "Good for him! I hope he's bangin' her brain's out."

"Ah, Tommy, you have such an eloquent way with words! But I do concur with your sentiments," laughed Harris.

The three men would have been utterly perplexed and enthralled (in a horrified sort of way) to have discovered that their friend and colleague was not passing the time tete-a-tete with a young lady. Instead, he was, at that very moment, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously at the man with whom the aforesaid 'Norma Jean' was and inexplicably had long been, enamored.

With great exasperation, Snape had informed Adams that, no, he would not be required to wear a lavender sequined dress or anything even vaguely of the sort. Nor would he be obliged to dance, kiss, fondle or do anything else on Adams' list of things he refused to do "no way, no how". Snape rather sensibly pointed out that (a) most of the behaviors which concerned Mr. Adams were of an inappropriate nature for a formal social function, no matter the gender of the participants, and (b) any overt actions that might hint of a romantic liaison between Madame Malfoy's cousin and another man would be strictly verboten. They were to express their mutual ardor through the subtlest of gestures - a tender glance, a nearly-imperceptible brush of the hand. This resulted in an initial tendency to a sort of vampy burlesque, at least on Adams' part, but after he'd been admonished rather menacingly by Snape several times, and had overcome his initial embarrassment, he began to act the part more convincingly.

On a more practical note, Snape was obliged to instruct his Muggle counterpart in all manner of wizarding essentials - dress, conversation, behavior - and to provide some basic information about wizard society, government and quidditch (of course) - so as to (hopefully) create a plausible illusion. One of the most important skills Adams was required to learn was the art of 'wand-waving', as Snape referred to it. Clearly, he could not perform magic on his own, but Mr. Ollivander had, with some apprehension, provided a valuable resource. The wand Snape had borrowed from him was an unusual item called an echo-wand. It could be 'preloaded' with three or four simple spells or charms; thereafter, if any bearer of the wand should properly speak the words and perform the required motions, the spell would be perfectly reproduced.

This particular wand that Snape had borrowed from Ollivander was unique, and known of by very few people. It was only because he had a penchant for reading arcane and esoteric material that Snape had learned of its existence. Its first owner, a hopeless squib, had commissioned the wand so he might appear to be a competent wizard. It had only served to get him killed when he had foolishly believed that he could perform a levitating spell on his own ability. Instead of getting out of the way of the large rock that came hurtling down at him, the idiot had waved his wand grandiosely and confidently intoned "Wingardium leviosa". Unfortunately, he had already used up his supply of pre-loaded spells, and the force of gravity took its natural course. Snape had no intention of enlightening his coconspirator as to the wand's morbid history.

If he had been aware of the unfortunate demise of the wand's prior user, it would have been unlikely to dissuade David Adams. What could be more exciting than actually learning how to cast a magical spell, even if it was only an echo-spell? Snape made Adams practice the spells until his arm ached, and did not spare the criticism of imperfections he characterized variously as 'glaring', 'idiotic', 'moronic', 'incompetent' and, of most concern to his pupil, 'likely to get us both killed'. He not only insisted on perfect technique, but he required Adams to develop a style of his own. "You are not a child", Snape explained impatiently. "It must not seem as if you are showing off some new talent you have just acquired." Which, of course, was exactly what he was doing. All in all, however, Adams was a fast learner, undeniably matching quick intelligence with ardent enthusiasm.

Not that Snape would have admitted it.

_3 December_

_Severus:_

_I have had a disturbing dream. I fear it may be more than a dream - it may be a memory. As much as I have eagerly sought to recall even a fleeting moment of my past, I cannot say I find any pleasure in this memory - if that is what it is. _

_I have dreamt of a sultry summer day on which you saw fit to disturb my repose and the innocence of childhood with a callousness and cruelty of which I could not bear to think you capable. Without corroboration, I am loathe to assign to a dream any more credence than it deserves, and thus I will not attribute to you such contemptible behavior. However, I am told that_ _you are a man who cannot be trusted, who may very well be one of a society of dark wizards who committed crimes beyond comprehension until the destruction of its leader sent his cowardly servants scrambling for cover under rocks, in piles of offal, and in some cases, directly into the welcoming arms of the Ministry of Magic. Were you such a one? I cannot presume to guess, but I anticipate that I may soon have at my disposal the means by which to answer that question, and thereby, to discover the likelihood of truth behind my unwelcome dream._

_The prospect that you might be a man of such deplorable character is one that lies heavy on my heart and utterly contradicts the impression that you made upon me. It seemed, perhaps mistakenly, that love could not possibly bloom as quickly as mine did for you, that it was there all along, lying dormant, waiting to be exposed to the proper nutrients, which only you could supply. Now I recognize that it was far more likely a mere infatuation, which my befuddled mind mistook for something more. Should it be true that you are not the man I have thought you to be, I will have no choice but to tear my affection for you from my heart, by the very roots. Should I allow it to grow, this tenacious weed threatens to become impossible to rout. _

_On the other hand, should I come to ascertain that you are the man I have believed you to be, I will rejoice in that knowledge, and allow my love for you to take root and bear seed as it may. In that case, I hope you will accept my most profound apologies. _

_L._


	43. Final Preparations for the Malfoy's part...

Chapter 43

_4 December_

_To:Echolalius Cadwallader_

_Chief Clerk, Records Division_

_Department of Criminal Prosecution_

_Ministry of Magic_

_Dear Mr. Cadwallader:_

_I have read with great interest your fascinating and brilliant interview which was recently published in The Daily Prophet. You expressed the most remarkably cogent and clever arguments in support of your theory. As I understand it, you propose that those wizards and witches who actually have been found to have committed the crimes alleged against them as Deatheaters are all suffering from the effects of an inferior lineage. Each of them felt compelled to validate himself as a true wizard by participating in such unlawful acts as would mitigate his feelings of inadequacy. It is so rare these days to hear anyone offer such an intelligent unifying explanation. I find your theory intriguing and credible; it confirms certain impressions that I have formulated while in the process of writing my own reports. _

_You have inspired me to an eager desire to further investigate this matter, at the earliest opportunity. Unfortunately, I am presently engaged in an assignment which does not permit me to return to the Ministry to retrieve my records, which I know are currently under your highly competent custody. If at all possible, perhaps you could have my records forwarded to me by return owl, so that I might avail of my spare time to seek out evidence in support of your analysis. Due to the nature of my assignment, I am not at liberty to reveal my location, but I am certain that my owl will be able to find me. _

_Once I have had an opportunity to review my records and reports, and have returned from my mission, I will consider it an honor and a privilege if I might meet with you in person to discuss my findings; perhaps I will be able to offer some small contribution in support of your remarkable hypothesis._

_In the meantime, I remain_

_Yours most respectfully,_

_Letha Faraday_

Letha reread the letter. Perhaps it was a bit over the top? She looked again at Cadwallader's picture in the Prophet, his self-important smirk, his ridiculous comb-over - and smiled. He would eat it up, with a spoon. She was not sure whether her records would include any information about Severus; and if there was any, she was not certain she would want to read it. However, she was willing to bet she would get a reply from the pompous ass who had custody and control over all the important and irreplaceable records of what was, for now, the busiest and most consequential division of the Ministry of Magic. She spritzed the letter with a hint of cologne, rolled it up, attached it to Horatio's leg, rubbed the owl's head gently and sent him off..

That night, she reconsidered. Yes, she thought, she wanted to _know_, no matter what she might find out. Bits and pieces of dreams, thoughts, ideas, perhaps memories, were poking like the tips of icebergs through a haze - tantalizing images flashed before her now and again - a row of students at desks in a classroom, an office crowded with piles of parchment, a man with a long white beard, a forest, and - she held up her hair while _he_ fastened a slender gold chain around her neck. That was real, she knew - that she could remember, after he'd stalked out in anger, and returned. with the necklace in hand. No - that was wrong. She concentrated, let her eyes wander over the image in her mind. Too young - they were too young - and the setting was wrong, too. Other than that, she could discern nothing; it was maddening! _He_ was maddening. She wanted, she needed information, verifiable information, so she could evaluate the matter rationally. Sensibly. Logically. So she could catalogue and categorize him, identify him accurately, like an insect etherized and pinned and displayed on a board. So she could dissect her feelings and sever them effortlessly and painlessly. And, as soon as possible.

Because, as things stood now, she missed him unbearably.

-

On the morning of December the 9th, Severus Snape awoke long before dawn. It was cold and dark; the fire had burned itself out and he shivered as he reluctantly slid out of bed and re-lit it. Bleary-eyed, he headed for the lavatory, washed up, and then proceeded to check over the preparations he had made for that evening. He started with the material items he had prepared - his own attire as well as Mr. FitzGerald's, gifts for the child and for the hosts. The carriage had been called; the portkey and echo-wand prepared. He did not allow himself to dwell upon the bizarre nature of the entire plan. He tried not to consider how easily an unprepared question or unforeseen circumstance could reveal the scheme. He tried not to think about how he was relying on a Muggle - a _Muggle_ - to help him deceive Lucius Malfoy - he shuddered as he considered his own father's fate. He was even careful to avoid thinking about what would happen in the event that his ruse was successful - he would be forced to spend, very possibly, the rest of his life, pretending to be what he was not. Such a result would entail a very lonely future; nevertheless, it would be better than the alternative consequences, if he were not successful. Besides, he was already pretending to be a great many things he was not.

It was time to pick up his date.

He dressed himself in the Muggle clothing he had purchased in Diagon Alley. Then he glanced into a small cauldron he had left sitting on his desk. Inside, were a pair of gobstones, one cat's-eye, the other rose quartz . He had found them in the back of a bureau drawer, scarcely remembering ever having had such things. He was fairly certain he had never played Gobstones as a boy, but he had been fascinated by the perfect little spheres with the hypnotic designs. He had managed to find all sorts of odd uses for the things. Now he had a new odd use for these particular specimens - he grabbed the cat's-eye and disappeared.

When Snape reappeared, he was standing in Adams' living room. Much to his relief, Adams walked in, fully dressed and apparently ready to leave. "Shall we go?" Snape asked, without any preamble. Adams shut his eyes and shook his head mournfully. He whispered, "One little problem", and pointed behind the wizard's back.

Snape turned around and saw that, lying on the couch was a large muscular man, face down and fast asleep. It was one of the policemen Snape had encountered in his first visit to the Muggle village. He glared at Adams. "What is _that_ doing there?"

Adams shrugged apologetically. "They all traipsed in here last night, intent on dragging me down to the pub. When I wouldn't come, they made themselves at home. But the others left. McTigue didn't."

"Can't you just leave him here?"

"No! He'll be up in - " Adams glanced at his watch - "an hour or so - and puke his guts out. Always does. But not here, for chrissake!"

Snape did not look at all happy. "I suppose you want me to deliver this swine to his own sty."

"Now, don't be talking about Tommy like that! He may be dumb as a post, but he's a good man. And anyway - " he added "that won't work. If you magically pop into his house in the wee hours of the morning, you'll leave with a serious headache, I'd wager."

"A headache? Why so?"

"Well, after the fair Lady McTigue's brought a heavy metal object down on your head... No, we'll have to drag his drunken arse home the old-fashioned way. We may get an earful, but at least the stainless steel cookware will be reserved for poor old Tommy here."

And thus it was that Severus Snape found himself with one massive arm hanging across his neck as the two men struggled to pull the rather large and bulky Constable Thomas X. McTigue down five flights of stairs and across the street. The first streaks of dawn began to appear on the horizon. Tears welled in his eyes as a putrid alcohol-and-onion-scented belch blasted in his face. Fortunately, there wasn't too far to go; the McTigues lived in one of a row of houses right across from Adams' building. They struggled up the steps to the front door, and Adams knocked. No answer. He knocked again, more loudly. This time, the door flew open abruptly, and a small bony woman with frizzy red hair stood before them looking murderous. "What the fuck are ya doin' draggin' that son-of-a-whore in here at this hour an' knockin' me up?" She then regaled them with a string of insults and curses that left Snape dumbfounded, though it did not seem to surprise Adams in the least. Finally, the woman said "Just dump 'im here an' get outta my sight, you miserable good for nothin' shitheads."

With immense relief, the two men began to lower their load to the ground. Suddenly, there was a loud sickening noise and Tommy McTigue discharged the entire contents of his capacious stomach onto Davy Adams and Severus Snape. Snape looked infuriated. Seething He reflexively reached down as if to grab his wand, and Mrs. McTigue smirked at him unpleasantly. "What are ya lookin' fer, scumbag? _I've _got something fer ya. Don't you dare go anywhere." He was so utterly flabbergasted, he did not move. In less than a moment, she returned with a bucket and shoved a mop into Snape's hands. "It better be spotless!" she ordered.

Adams tried to gauge whether the expression frozen on Snape's face was more one of outrage, disgust or stupefaction. "I will do no such thing!" he spat. He looked about ready to hurl the mop at her, and Adams grabbed the end. "Er - my cousin's a bit touchy, Molly, I'll take care of it."

"No, that's a'right, Davy. Don't spoil the boy - I asked him to clean it up, and that he will."

It was one more thing Lucius Malfoy was never going to know - though it would have provided him with great amusement - that Snape had spent part of the morning cleaning the vomit of a drunken Muggle off the floor of a foyer, under the watchful eye of the Muggle's wife. Adams assisted, and they got the mess cleaned up. As Adams handed back the mop to the lady of the house, she grinned at him maliciously. "So tell me, Davy, have ya heard about Annie? She's very happy, y'know - engaged to some bloke with real money, who can treat her right. Guess ya haven't heard from her lately, have ya?" He looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. Weakly he responded, "Not lately, Molly m'love, but thanks for asking." He practically shoved Snape out of the door. The two men, having been granted their freedom, fled out into the street. Shopkeepers were beginning to open their stores and a few automobiles passed. Snape and Adams did their best to ignore the stares they got as they headed back to Adams' place, both of them festooned with drying puke.

Once in the building, Snape practically flew up the stairs. He stopped outside the door of the flat, gasping a bit from the exertion, and exhorted Adams to hurry up and get the door open. Adams unlocked the door, and Snape rushed in, immediately grabbing up his wand from where he'd left it hidden in a space behind the radiator. "Sorry about that," said Adams, "I never expected..."

Snape spun and faced him in white-lipped fury, eyes like glowing embers, wand upraised. If Adams felt any trepidation, he did not show it. Slowly, silently, Snape lowered his wand to his side, black eyes glaring through a rigid mask-like visage. It was readily apparent that Snape was maintaining self-control by only the most herculean effort. Yet, had he unleashed on Adams the full extent of his wrath, it would scarcely have had any effect compared to the torment that Molly McTigue's simple inquiry had inflicted.

"Come here," Snape ordered perfunctorily. Adams did as he was asked. Snape clamped his fingers on his upper arm and picked up what looked like a child's marble. The room disappeared.

Adams must have closed his eyes, because he had to open them now. He found himself in a dark vestibule leading to a fairly large, dark bedchamber, dimly lit only by a dying fire languishing in the grate. Snape picked up a long narrow box from the bed and handed it to him. "I think we could use some more light in here, would you not agree?"

"Sure. Oh." A bit nervously, he opened the box and removed the wand that lay inside. He held out and waved the wand as he had practiced and shouted "Lumos!" When the sconces hung about the room all lit up at once, he was so astonished he nearly fell over. "Well, look at that!" he exclaimed, grinning broadly.

"Oh, do get over yourself," Snape muttered. "Any child with half a brain can do that."

"Not where I come from, they can't".

Snape's eyes glittered malevolently. "That is because any wizard child with half a brain is more skilled and capable than the most talented adult among you."

"Oh really? Is that so? It seems to me we've accomplished a hell of a lot on account of not being able to just go "Zap!" That's why we've figured out how to do the exact same thing - with a light switch."

"We? Who is this 'we'? Perhaps there are a few ingenious ones among the lot of you. But the rest are so many untalented sheep, using and abusing the frequently useless and even dangerous products that spew forth from the avaricious minds of a handful of clever ones. Moreover, for your information, there is no simple 'Zap!' as you seem to believe. Magic does not simply 'happen'. It requires ability and intelligence for proper use. The fact is, there is nothing more contemptible and helpless than a stupid and unskillful wizard."

"Yes, well..."

"...unless it would be one who has a modicum of athletic and social skill and thereby concludes he is better than others because of it. And do you know how stupid most people are?"

"I'm not sure I understand how..."

"When that sort presumes to strut and preen like an empty-headed peacock, people are all too often taken in."

"Snape..."

"Duped. Utterly bamboozled."

"What empty-headed peacock are you talking about?"

"He may lord himself above everyone else, yet has no sense of honor." Snape's voice became sharp-edged. "Tell me, Adams, would you betray your closest friend?"

"I... wouldn't..."

"But, on the other hand, if you were warned by reliable sources - impeccable sources - that your best friend had betrayed _you,_ would you be so arrogant as to think you knew better?"

Adams was totally flummoxed at this turn of conversation. He recalled that Snape had pursued the same line of colloquy, with the same half-mad glitter in his eyes, after they'd found Letha. "Well, I might..."

"Might what?" Snape snapped between clenched teeth.

"Give him a chance to explain himself."

"Really? Perhaps - but would you..."

Enough was enough. Adams had not completely regained his equilibrium after Molly McTigue's spiteful inquiry about his ex-wife (who happened to be her sister), and he was in no mood for some rambling irrelevant rant. "Snape! Is there any point to this discussion? If not, can we get back to what we're supposed to be doing? I, for one, would like to come home from this party tonight in one piece!"

Snape looked at him thoughtfully; his features relaxed. "You are absolutely right. Let us get cleaned up, have a bite to eat, and go over the preparations." Snape himself brought up a tray of food from the kitchen, and left Adams to devour it alone. Davy's mood did improve dramatically after eating a decent meal, and he did not at all mind being left on his own for a while. In particular, he had dreaded the possibility that Snape might ask him about Annie, a topic of discussion he was greatly inclined to avoid. Not that he was so stupid as to suppose that Severus Snape would have even the slightest interest in the details of his life.

He assessed his situation. A bad-tempered and possibly insane wizard had rooked him into some half-baked, dangerous scheme without even asking his leave. As a result, he was, apparently, going to be risking his life, under rather bizarre and embarrassing circumstances, to accomplish some aim of which he had only the vaguest understanding. (And a skeptical little voice inside him kept saying: "Adams, you twit, there's no such thing as magic." He ignored it.) On the other hand, it was probably the most exciting thing he'd ever done, and the worst thing he could imagine Snape saying to him at that moment was "I've reconsidered. Forget the whole thing."

When Snape returned, they made final preparations and went over various possible situations and scenarios. Davy felt he had come to know Eamon FitzGerald very well. He knew what was expected of him, how he behaved, spoke, walked, ate, his opinions and his feelings. He had never considered a career in the theatre, but he had come to understand and appreciate how an actor adopts the mantle of his character, and imbues it with his own life force. At this point, Eamon was as much his own creation as Snape's. Over the past few weeks, he had become quite comfortable with wearing the flowing dark-green robe, and in fact rather enjoyed it. However, he could not seem to avoid feeling ridiculous in the pointed matching hat, as if he were an oversized child playing dress-up for Halloween.

Snape attached the dragonhide wand-sheath and intricately-carved silver frog to the sash of Adams' robe. Of course, he did not tell Adams that the material was in fact dragonhide - he was not prepared to reveal that bit of information. Nor did he explain that there were those who would be present who would recognize him as a Muggle, no matter how well he played his role. In particular, the Malfoys' house-elf would _know; _as would Fippy, given a chance, but the Snapes' house-elf was at that moment sitting glumly in the kitchen, wondering what terrible thing she might have done to cause Master Severus to banish her there, on threat of discharge. On the other hand, the silver frog had a use in addition to providing evidence of Mr. FitzGerald's extravagant tastes. The enchanted silver object would help confound the house-elf, shielding the wearer's identity from recognition by anyone capable of seeing past the impersonation. Snape had taken an added precaution. He had prepared a Penumbra Refractus potion, and bid Mr. FitzGerald swallow down the vile concoction, which would help deflect prying thoughts. Upon further consideration, he quaffed a goblet as well.

In the late afternoon, Snape announced that it was time to get started. He made sure nothing was out of place, and grasped Adams by the shoulder. Then he picked up the rose quartz gobstone, and a moment later, the two men were standing in the woods near the house. "You will knock on the door, and the house-elf will answer. Then, I will be introducing you to my mother; I am afraid she may not be terribly hospitable, however."

"I can imagine", Adams answered in his newly-minted accent.

'No, I am not sure you can', Snape thought. Then he thought of Molly McTigue, and reconsidered. "After the coachman has loaded the carriage, we will embark on our little enterprise. Any last questions?" Adams shook his head, so Snape picked up the gobstone again and disappeared.

Adams took a deep breath and headed for the large, dark old house. He knocked on the door, drawing the robe around himself, shivering a bit in the cold winter air. The door opened.

"Please come in, sir," beckoned a squeaky voice. Adams looked down and saw the oddest-looking creature he'd ever set eyes on in his life.


	44. Journey the the Malfoy Estate

Chapter 44

He introduced himself as Eamon FitzGerald and followed the greenish pointy-eared little creature into an anteroom decorated in a lugubriously baroque style. It was a room clearly designed to intimidate the visitor with large grim, looming furniture, dark impersonal angles, ornate and haughty curves. The little munchkin-creature seemed to look at him rather oddly, when it seemed to him that he was the one who should (but dared not) be doing the gawking. "Please to wait here, sir. Master Severus will be down shortly." The ersatz wizard arched his eyebrows and curled his lip haughtily at the funny-looking thing, who gave him one last puzzled glance and scurried off.

A few moments later, the door opened and in walked a tall slender woman with long raven-black hair piled on her head in an intricate hairstyle. She would have been quite attractive except for the disagreeable expression on her face, which suggested that the object in her vision offended her delicate sensibilities. As it happened, he was the object in her vision, and she smiled at him unpleasantly. "Oh this is just perfect." she sneered. "If he is trying to embarrass me, this should do the trick."

Snape's voice came from behind her. "Then you need not accompany us, Mother. Feel free to stay home."

She turned around to face her son. "Just look what you've dragged home. What's the matter? Even that silly girl wouldn't have you, I suppose, so you had to resort to - this?" she spat, waving her arm dismissively at Adams.

Snape spoke very softly. "You might want to show some proper manners to Mr. FitzGerald. Then again, that is merely a suggestion."

Adams suppressed a shudder. The expression on Snape's face made it clear that it would be a very good idea for her to take his suggestion. The mother grimaced, pasted a frozen grin on her lips, and turned to him. "Mr. FitzGerald," she drawled unctuously, "it is a real pleasure to meet you. I've heard such lovely things about you from my dear Severus. Why, I can see that you and he must be perfect together. A match made in heaven! Now you will excuse me; for some reason I find myself feeling a bit ill." With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, calling "Fippy! I need you this instant!"

The two men were now alone in the room. "Perhaps it is fortunate the journey is short" murmured Snape. "By the way, you have passed the test."

"You mean I've ticked off your mum? Didn't take much talent to do that."

"No, I meant that you've fooled the house-elf. She should be able to recognize a Muggle."

"She did look at me a bit funny."

Snape looked thoughtful. "We can't have that. If she sensed something, so will the Malfoys' house-elf. Perhaps another goblet of the potion will do it."

"Ugh! That stuff tastes like extract of tire treads in sour milk."

"I believe you said you would like to go home from the party as a living being. Am I mistaken?" Adams made it clear he was not, and resigned himself to imbibing some more of the awful elixir.

Snape brought Adams back to his chamber, then carried their gifts and supplies outside. His mother stood by the carriage, giving the driver instructions as to how to load a very large portrait of the Malfoy family into the back of the vehicle. "You might want to shrink it for the trip", he suggested, reaching into his robe for a small vial.

"And drive up with a gift that looks like a mere nothing? This whole - experience - is sufficiently humiliating - I won't be embarrassed further."

Severus rolled his eyes. "Then you can walk. There is no way that thing is going to fit in the back of the carriage."

"Well, that is just silly. However," she added hopefully, "it would be perfectly fine if we could push the portrait into the passenger compartment. Your friend could simply apparate, and you can accompany him into the house when we get there."

"I think not." Despite his mother's protests, he flicked his wand, and the painting shrunk to a manageable size. The driver slipped it into the back of the carriage.

"Was that absolutely necessary?" she fumed.

"Yes."

"No decent wizard treats his mother this way. But then, you've never showed any signs of decency." She paused, and her voice became smooth and conspiratorial. "Severus, you know, I can't help wondering. That girl, why was she here?"

"That is none of your business."

"But it is rather odd, I mean, if anyone should ask..."

He screwed up his face skeptically. "Why would anyone ask? Who would know, other than from you?"

"Well, I really have no idea, but..."

Snape walked over and stood with his face near hers. "Never mind. I will gladly explain. I was taking care of a certain matter for Lucius. He wanted it kept quiet. I was the logical choice because this is the sort of thing I do, and - I was at one time acquainted with Miss Faraday. Lucius felt, quite correctly, that I might be able to persuade her to listen to reason."

"Perhaps Narcissa should know about this!" exclaimed the woman indignantly.

"I do not think Lucius would much appreciate that, Mother. I do not think he would wish the matter addressed at all. Do you comprehend what I am telling you?"

She nodded tersely. The discussion was finished. Snape sent Fippy inside to fetch Mr. FitzGerald, and they soon set off.

On the way to the Malfoys, Adams kept up a persistent, aggressive and seemingly sincere campaign to ingratiate himself with Madame Snape. The beleaguered woman had a look of desperation in her eyes as she tried to escape Mr. FitzGerald's kind attentions without angering her son. For his part, Severus sat silent and expressionless, but Adams had the impression he found the situation highly amusing.

After a fairly brief journey (though not brief enough for Madame Snape's taste, no doubt), they pulled up in front of a huge formal garden, brightly lit along the paths by blazing torches. Fireflies clustered among the hedges and scattered in patterns Adams was certain could not have been the result of natural distribution, highlighting graceful willow branches and silhouetting fanciful topiaries. As they approached the front gate, a large ugly creature in gold and green livery sidled up to the carriage door. Adams recognized it as a security troll. Snape handed the troll a parchment, which it pretended to read. However, all it could actually recognize was the Malfoy herald. "Is good." it reassured them with a threatening growl. The coachman came around and opened the door.

They exited the carriage and approached the massive front door of a manor that looked like nothing so much as a replica of the Palace of Versailles, which Adams had once visited on a family trip. His sisters had been enchanted. His brothers and he had made fun of the portraits of the men in their lace collars and stockings; he suppressed a grin as he considered what Danny or Luke would say if they saw him now. Snape must have noticed the expression on his face, because as they made their entrance and were announced, Snape glared at him. Adams shrugged sheepishly.


	45. The Center of Attention

Chapter 45

They were led into a large sweeping entranceway. The ceiling appeared to be transparent, giving a magnificent view of the heavens, but Davy realized that the real sky was not so clear that night, nor would so many constellations all be visible at the same time. They descended a splendid marble staircase which led them into a large ballroom filled with a crowd of very elegantly-dressed wizards and witches. A tall exquisite blonde woman swept over to Snape and he bowed to her. She returned the slightest hint of a nod.

This had to be Narcissa. Her features were delicate and regular; her nose aquiline and elegant. The woman's eyes were a remarkable shade of violet, and yet managed to convey no warmth. Like her cousin, she had pale skin, but while his had a yellowish cast, hers was like fine porcelain, with the faintest rose blush. Adams did not need a subscription to Witch Weekly to recognize that the woman's undeniably magnificent gown was the height of magical haute couture. How many times had Annie shoved a copy of Vogue in his face, pointed to some exorbitantly-priced bit of nonsense and whined "That's what I should be wearing Davy, not these rags!" And somehow, Davy Adams knew that the diaphanous confection would never be worn a second time.

Madame Snape took both the woman's hands in hers and gushed, "My darling Narcissa, Aphrodite herself would turn green with envy at the sight of you!" Narcissa slid her hands out of her aunt's grasp. "Hello, Aunt Eris", she said coolly. She looked at Snape with the hint of a frown.

"Lucius had said I might bring a guest."

"Oh really, Severus, he was just being facetious; no one really thought you'd bring anyone." She glanced over at his mother, who was preoccupied with examining the crowd. "If I'd wanted her to come I would have invited her. Lucius will have a fit!" she hissed.

"No, I will speak to him - and she has promised to be on her best behavior", said Snape placidly. He quickly added, "I am afraid, however, that I may have taken advantage of your husband's hospitality." Narcissa raised her eyebrows in alarm. "I have brought not one, but two guests. May I introduce Eamon FitzGerald?"

Davy stepped forward and bowed. "It is indeed an honor and a pleasure to meet you," he enunciated with an aristocratic Irish inflection.

Narcissa peered at him curiously. "Are you a friend of my cousin's?"

"I am."

Eris Snape overheard this and felt the need to clarify matters. She smiled smugly at Adams and then at Severus. "It pains me to tell you this, darling, but this man and your cousin are - " Snape turned his face towards her and smiled at her. At least, it had the general appearance of a thin-lipped smile, but its threat was unmistakable. "- Colleagues."

"I see." Narcissa looked vaguely perplexed.- actually, she did not see at all. Nor did she really care. "I have done my duty, now you will excuse me while I find some interesting conversation?" And with that, she turned and headed off.

Snape plunged into the crowd, glancing at Adams to indicate that he should follow. He introduced FitzGerald to various wizards and witches. Within a short time, the two men became the object of numerous stares - some curious, some icy, many amused. One very large, homely wizard pushed his way over and guffawed in Snape's face. "Heh heh - I always knew you were a fribble", he snorted, and sticking his face forward, added "Theveruth". Adams shook his head. Clearly, wizards came in varieties as stupid as some Muggles.

The two men made their way to an inconspicuous corner of the room, ostensibly seeking privacy, but they were interrupted at various intervals by assorted individuals following the trail of juicy gossip. With uncharacteristic patience, Snape repeatedly introduced Eamon FitzGerald as an 'acquaintance from Dublin', and ignored the goggling and snide comments that their subtle little charade of mutual affection seemed to engender. Adams had the distinct impression that, possibly, his and Severus' apparent relationship was rare among wizards or, more likely, what was rare was 'coming out of the closet.'

At one point, he pictured what would happen if the string quartet playing genteely on the balcony were magically replaced by Freddie Mercury strutting across the floor, and nearly choked. Snape glanced at him sharply; Eamon was, at that moment, shaking his head in agreement with a ruddy-faced wizard, who seemed to be waiting for further elucidation of Mr. FitzGerald's opinion. "You were saying?"

Adams looked at him blankly, but Snape prompted him, between clenched teeth, "You were telling Mr. Uffington how you disapprove of the new Irish Minister of Magic?"

"Right. Sorry - I thought I saw someone I recognized, but I was mistaken. Well..." he collected his thoughts. "I don't really much keep up with politics, but I'm not too happy about this business that he voted against the Culvert Bill."

The ruddy-faced man nodded emphatically. "Precisely what I think! Miscegenation should be criminalized! That would put a stop to this influx of Muggleborns!"

"Absolutely!" remarked Adams with enthusiasm. "Can't have all those stinkin' Mudbloods destroyin' our bloodlines."

"Yes, well...", Uffington sighed. "You're a good fellow, FitzGerald. Too bad you're..."

Adams peered at him pleasantly. "Yes?"

"Er - Irish."

Adams felt his face twisting uncontrollably.

"Forgive me," said Uffington anxiously; ""I did not mean to insult you as an Irishman."

"No? How did you mean to insult me, sir?" he asked indignantly. Under his robe, Adams pinched his own thigh to keep from laughing, while Uffington hastily excused himself.

Snape looked at him oddly and shook his head, but moments later, they were accosted by a dapper-looking fellow with a disagreeable expression, named MacNair, who seemed quite outraged at the dearth of donations by Muggleborns to worthy causes. He was interrupted by a high-pitched voice at knee height. "Please sir", the voice squeaked, "Master Lucius wishes to speaks to you, sir."

"Certainly", said MacNair, "I am at his service."

"Please sir, I is sorry, but Master Lucius askeded for Mr. Severus Snape, sir."

"I see", said MacNair with obvious disappointment.

"Please excuse me, gentlemen", said Snape, and he followed the elf out of the room.

Adams was relieved when MacNair seemed to have talked himself out, and moved towards the middle of the room. He noticed a number of people pointing him out, speaking in a mocking tone as he passed by. He made his way to the other end of the room, from which extended a long corridor, flanked on either side with a row of large wooden doors. He wandered down the hall, noting that most of the doors were closed, but one was slightly ajar. Curiously, he pushed it open. The room was dark, and he automatically reached out his hand for a light switch, then chastised himself. Instead, he waved his wand. "Lumos!" and a light shown from the tip of the wand.

He discovered that he was in a large and magnificent library, and he examined the titles of some of the books. They did not seem very well categorized. "Native Magical Flora of Southern England" sat on a shelf next to the 1967 and then the 1972 editions of "Annual Valuation of Assets: Gringotts Bank". On the other side of the plant book was an antique-looking volume entitled "The Sayings of Salazar Slytherin: A Guide for Living". Adams slid it off the shelf and opened it at random.

A purebred wizard can never be too vigilant in avoiding the taint of contact with the Muggleborn. Fortunately, it is but a simple matter to detect signs of impure blood. In weakness of chin and character, in feebleness of mind, noxiousness of odor, and in tediousness of thought, the Muggle or Muggleborn is easily recognized.

"Don't think for a minute that you're the only one!" a pleasant low-pitched voice advised. Adams dropped the book in surprise. Shakily he pointed his wand at it. "Wingardium leviosa!" The book rose up into his grasp. He hoped that would dispel any doubt as to his authenticity.

The man was short and heavyset, middle-aged, with an oddly upcurved nose below a pair of sharp, intelligent grey eyes. He clucked his tongue. "People have gotten so lazy these days. You're a young man. Why waste perfectly good magic, instead of bending down and picking it up?"

"I - well, sure, I..."

"Oh, you can stop gibbering, Mr. FitzGerald. I suppose you came in here to avoid the stares and comments? You needn't worry about me - you and I, sir, have something in common." He stepped forward and held out his hand. "Barnaby Calisher. Call me Barnaby." Davy shook his hand. "Eamon FitzGerald's my name. But then, you knew that"

"By now, everyone knows your name, Eamon. Severus certainly didn't make things easy for you...not that I'd expect him to. But I have to give him credit. Severus has never chosen to be a conventional sort, despite his love of conventions. Tell me," urged Mr. Calisher in a conspiratorial tone, "does his bedroom activity have an unconventional quality as well?"

Davy was a bit taken aback. Then he considered the condition of his bedroom after Snape and Letha's debauchery. "I suppose - I suppose you could say that."

Calisher smiled. "I'm not surprised." He paused. "A bit of advice, Eamon. I know how it is in the heady early days of a romance. And when you're young, you think nothing can stop you. Severus should know better - he's a man well-versed in the value of discretion, but love can have a funny effect on people. Keep that in mind."

"Thank you, Barnaby, I will."

"Especially in company like this. You know, it's very odd, when you consider. There are no pureblood fribbles. They do not exist. Yet, you are a pureblood, are you not?"

Adams looked him straight in the eye. "Of course. Aren't you?"

Calisher puffed on his pipe with deliberation. "I am a Calisher. One does not question the pedigree of a Calisher." His grave tone of voice worried Adams. Had he said the wrong thing to the wrong wizard? But then, Calisher winked at him. "And one does not question the fribbleness of Barnaby Calisher. But you, sir, had better mind your manners. And discretion."

"I will remember that. Thank you."

Calisher handed Adams a small embossed card on fine parchment. "Let me know if I can ever be of any assistance. Now I think I will return to the party. I may have missed out on some exciting rumors." With that he left; Adams reshelved the book and also left the library, continuing down the corridor.


	46. A Private Conversation

Chapter 46

Snape opened the door and strode into the study. Malfoy was standing by the fireplace, barely heeding the three wizards who were vying to occupy his attention. After a few moments, his eyes met Snape's, and he waved his hand to dismiss the three.

One of them, a stocky wizard with a handlebar moustache, was unwilling to be dismissed. "Lucius, this a matter of grave importance..." Malfoy studiously ignored the man, and the three wizards silently took their leave.

Malfoy silently watched as Snape walked over to him. Then he smirked. "Well Severus, you've certainly made yourself the topic of conversation!"

Snape raised his eyebrows in an expression of mild surprise. "Have I?"

Malfoy chuckled softly. "Do not concern yourself; it will not be the topic of our conversation. Of course, if it was simply your intention to upset your relatives..."

"It was not."

"Very well. Far be it from me to judge you." Odd - it seemed that Lucius had once said those same words to him. But in what context? "Speaking of which - Father has told me he found your sentencing hearing quite amusing."

"I would like to thank him for his support."

"Tell him yourself; he is around here somewhere. But, I understand that not everyone was as convinced as he was of your moral rehabilitation. An old friend of yours was particularly vociferous in that respect."

His breath caught in his throat. "An old friend? Crouch Sr. is no friend of mine."

"You know very well I am not speaking about that contemptible piece of trash. I was referring to your little girlfriend. I suppose she never forgave you - still holds a grudge from way back. Ah Severus," he sighed, "I should have known then, where your predilections lay. You did indicate to me that your relationship was completely innocent. I thought you were just being reticent. I guess you really just weren't interested - with a girl. Too bad. She was just waiting for you to..."

'Far be it from me to judge you.' That was what Lucius had said back then, too. About Letha. He had an urge to take out his wand and do something he knew he would regret. "Goyle did make it a point to tell me that HE always knew the truth."

Lucius unfurled a grin. "Yes, he came running to tell me his suspicions were confirmed. Remarkably astute, that fellow, as always." He again chuckled softly, then returned to the topic that seemed to interest him. "She was assigned to keep you on the straight and narrow. Has she succeeded?"

Snape answered softly. "She has not had the opportunity. Miss Faraday has disappeared."

"Yes," Lucius responded. "So I have heard. I don't suppose you know anything about the disappearance of the very person who was so eager to send you back to Azkaban - for good? Heard any rumors? Theories?"

"No doubt you are aware that George Bailey has also been missing. I assume there is some connection."

Lucius regarded him intently. "What else do you assume, Severus?"

"Bailey is a fool. Apparently, he had a certain interest in Faraday, that was not particularly professional. "

"Do go on."

"I was scheduled to meet with her, and she did not show up. I did not wish to jeopardize my freedom, you understand, by violating its terms ..." Severus continued with a narrative of the events that occurred, with a few adjustments. He, of course, left out Adams' involvement and took credit for obliviating Letha. She was now, he explained, incarcerated in St. Mungo's.

"And what has become of Mr. Bailey?"

"He is in my custody until I can turn him over to the Ministry."

Lucius frowned. "Why would you do that?"

"If someone is to go to Azkaban for causing Miss Faraday's condition, I prefer that it should be Bailey and not myself. Not surprisingly, he sees the matter somewhat differently."

"I would imagine."

"Lucius - the man is a dunderhead. He placed himself and all of us at risk. He took her, of all places, to - you know where - leaving her for dead. That is where I found her. Can you imagine if someone else had found her? The inquiry that would ensue?"

Lucius looked thoughtful. Severus knew he was weighing in his mind the relative assets and deficits of George Bailey and Severus Snape. It was purely a question of comparative value.

"I am surprised you did not kill him."

"Are you? I like to think I am not a complete fool."

"On the contrary, you can be far too smart for your own good. Still, I do not think you have much hope of convincing the Ministry that a crime has been committed by one of their own, especially when he will surely place the blame on you."

"Unless..."

"Unless I put in a word on your behalf." He put his hand reassuringly on Snape's shoulder. "Consider it done, old friend."

"It is just one more matter for which I shall be in your debt."

Lucius smiled, a Cheshire-cat smile. "Think nothing of it. I ask nothing in return." He brought his face close, so that Severus felt Lucius' breath against his cheek. "There is, however, another matter I would like to discuss with you..."


	47. Mr FitzGerald joins the conversation

Chapter 47

Adams continued down the corridor, which turned left after some distance. He followed that hallway down past several more doors, and it turned left yet again. There seemed to be no point in continuing further, so he turned around.

"He doesn't want to be disturbed," said a nasal voice with a thick Sussex accent.

"I need to speak to him", a deep voice responded, with a hint of urgency.

"It seems that he's preoccupied with a very important matter."

"I have a very important matter to discuss with him. With what is he so busy?"

"Snape."

For several moments, there was silence. Then, a derisive snort. "Is that all? Admonishing him for this little stunt he's pulled?"

"I think not. That would call for an appreciative audience, no doubt. There's something far more intriguing afoot, I'd reckon. Even in these cautious times, Lucius must have something noxious he wants done. I'd love to know what they're plotting."

_So would I_, Adams thought.

"Something vile and unpleasant, right up Snape's alley. You know, he gives me the creeps, that one. Always pops up at just the wrong moment. But useful in his way, I'm sure." There was a soft chuckle. I hear the Dumb Old Whore thinks he's on their side now."

"Right. And I'm adopting a nest of Mudblood orphans to raise as my own," responded Sussex.

"How about the Potter brat?" Adams heard the two men laugh as they headed back in the direction of the party.

Adams waited until the footsteps died away and made his way over to the door by which the two men had been standing. Did he dare intrude? At worst, he could blame it on his ignorance, as a 'foreigner'. Quietly, carefully, he pushed open the door just enough to slip through, and closed it behind him. He found himself in a large, warm, dimly-lit room, elegantly appointed in rich leathers, unusual animal hides, highly polished rare woods and imposing portraiture. From where he stood, a short foyer led into the main portion of the room, at the far end of which a fire blazed gloriously under a magnificent mantel. Silhouetted in front of the fire, Adams could see the seated profiles of two men, face to face, one dark-haired, the other light. They were completely engrossed in their conversation, and apparently the intrusion had not been noticed.

Adams squeezed himself into a shadowy corner and watched. The slender blond man, whom he assumed was Lucius Malfoy, did all of the talking. Snape's end of the conversation seemed to consist of slow nods and grunts of assent. He could not see Snape's face very well, but he looked and moved in a vague and disconnected sort of way, as if treading through treacle - completely at odds with what Adams associated with the sharp-minded, sharp-tempered wizard. Adams strained to hear what was said. Apparently, he had missed the preponderance of the conversation. Snape sat with a bemused expression, his eyes riveted on Malfoy's face. He gave a treacly nod in response to whatever Malfoy had said, and Malfoy responded with a Cheshire-cat smile. "Then it's settled, Severus?"

Adams had no idea what Malfoy considered settled, but whatever it was, he was pretty sure it couldn't be anything good. Without really thinking about, without entirely considering the matter, he slid out of his corner and strode over to where the two men sat. "Oh there you are Severus; I've been looking all over for you!" he boomed good-naturedly. Malfoy started, but Snape did not even move. Adams smiled cheerfully. "Wonderful party, Malfoy, old boy. I didn't know Severus had so many fascinating acquaintances. The food is exquisite, the music, divine! Wouldn't you agree, Severus?" With that, he clapped his hand heavily on Snape's shoulder, squeezed firmly and shook. To his dismay, Snape's face registered only the barest indication of awareness.

Malfoy's face, on the other hand, immediately took on an ashen hue. His features remained carefully composed, though tautly drawn. "Fitzpatrick, we are engaged in a private conversation of some consequence. Please take your leave until we have finished our discussion." His eyes bored into Adams' with undisguised malice.

"FitzGerald. Eamon FitzGerald."

"Yes, whatever. Just go!"

"Certainly; I'm not the sort to go sticking my nose in where it's not wanted. Until later then, love." He quickly moved in front of Snape, leaned over, and gave him a loud and vehement kiss on the lips. Snape's eyes widened into two inky black pools, and he let out a gasp, like a submerged man who has suddenly been pulled from the water. Davy stood between the two men, so that Malfoy was unable to see the stunned expression on Snape's face. When he'd gathered his wits, Snape began to open his mouth, but Adams gave him a warning look before slipping out of the way.

"Eamon, perhaps you should apologize to Mr. Malfoy for your rather immoderate behavior," Snape urged.

"Frankly, I see no reason for it, but if it makes you feel better, Malfoy, I'm sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities."

Malfoy shot out of his chair angrily. "I do not know who you think you are, but you have made a serious mistake! I challenge you to a duel!"

Adams looked at him in a calm, slow, unruffled way. "I accept."

Malfoy's eyes glinted malevolently. "Severus, this will provide you with an excellent excuse to find yourself a far more charming companion. Or perhaps you will reconsider your sexual preferences altogether."

"I fear Mr. FitzGerald misspoke, Lucius." Snape said quietly. He looked at Adams pointedly. "No insult was intended. I fear that Eamon is at times a bit - impetuous."

Mr. FitzGerald puckered his lips sourly. "A challenge has been tendered, and accepted. That's the long and short of it."

Snape opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Adams avoided his eyes.

"Very well, it is settled. Tonight is out of the question, of course. Tomorrow, midnight, out on the lower western field." Malfoy waved his hand dismissively.

Snape stepped forward. "I am afraid I will not be available tomorrow evening. I will be occupied for the next week."

Malfoy scowled. "Then I am afraid, FitzGerald, that you will be on your own. There will be no adjournments made to suit your convenience." He turned to Snape. "Well, Severus, what could be so urgent that you would be willing to miss this?"

Snape smiled thinly. "I have an important appointment with Professor Dumbledore..."

"Do you really? Change it."

"...and Professor Calibrato," Snape concluded, ignoring Malfoy's comment. "I believe I may be offered Calibrato's position once he retires."

"A teaching position at Hogwarts?" Malfoy laughed. "That is the funniest thing I have heard in a long time. Just picture it! Severus Snape, standing before a classroom of ill-mannered snot-nosed brats! I can see the headlines: "Hogwarts professor convicted of petrifying entire class of first-years!"

Snape did not look amused. He whispered, "I hardly think so."

"Maybe not, maybe not. It's simply an idea that - takes some getting used to." Malfoy folded up his grin as neatly as he had unfurled it, and glanced sharply at FitzGerald. "So, there it is; other matters apparently take precedence over you. Severus will not be there. But, you had better be."

"You needn't worry. I will be there, Mr. Malfoy." He winked. "With bells on." With that, he turned around and left the room, adding as he closed the door, "Just be sure you don't chicken out."

Several minutes later, Adams found himself facing a very furious Severus Snape, who silently raised one long finger and beckoned him to follow. He led Adams to the scullery, and shooed away a very surprised-looking house-elf. "Are you INSANE?" he hissed.

"I wasn't the one who initiated the challenge," said Adams defensively.

"But you accepted! Do you realize that we are talking about a duel of magic? Need I point out that your odds of winning a duel against a wizard - ANY wizard - are easily calculable? Precisely. Exactly. Zero."

Adams considered. "Is this a duel to the death? I'm hoping that's not allowed."

"You are correct, but there are a great many other very unpleasant things Malfoy can do to you."

Adams made a face. "I can imagine. Is he good at it?"

"What difference does that make?"

He tapped his wand. "If you load up this thing with a few really good zingers..." He stopped when he saw Snape's expression of disgust.

"Is THAT what you thought? Let me tell you what happened to the last man who used that wand. He, too, overestimated his own paltry skills." He paused, then added, "may he rest in peace."


	48. The Duel

Chapter 48

The next evening was clear and very cold. Shortly before midnight, in the middle of a large snow-dusted field on the outskirts of the Malfoy estate, huddled a small cluster of men, their faces partially lit by the glow of a bonfire. Murmurs of conversation and occasional laughter drifted across the otherwise-barren heath, but died away at the approach of a tall slender man draped in a heavy black cloak. Without saying a word, he stepped before Lucius Malfoy and nodded curtly, his face unsmiling. Malfoy returned an equally brusque acknowledgment.

Uffington stepped forward, clearly in a hurry to start the proceedings and get out of the cold. "Gentlemen, please take your places." Malfoy and FitzGerald both followed him. "You are both familiar with Carruther's Modified Rules for Outdoor Combat? Forbidden Curses are not permitted; nor is the Expelliarmus Spell. You may injure your opponent, but you may not intentionally kill him. The duel ends when one contestant is disarmed and his wand is out of arm's reach, or of course, if only one is left alive, in the event of an unfortunate and unintentional accident."

Both men nodded in assent and Uffington moved out of the way. Malfoy handed his cloak to Goyle and took his position. FitzGerald took his position as well, removed his cloak and tossed it into the air. It disappeared from sight. The two men stood, back to back and walked ten paces, to Uffington's count. They turned and faced one another, wands drawn and ready.

They bowed brusquely again to one another. Malfoy's cold pale eyes fixed themselves menacingly on FitzGerald's, but his rival's mournful basset-hound eyes did not flinch in the least. Uffington announced the commencement of the duel.

"Orba conflagratia!"

"Rete urtica!"

There was no slow, gracious start to this duel. Large flaming spheres came hurtling at Malfoy, who dodged this way and that to avoid them. FitzGerald was enveloped in a snare of stinging nettles. He pulled out his wand-arm - tearing a long burning slash from his elbow to his wrist - and blasted the brittle vines to smithereens. For his part, Malfoy sustained a blistering burn on the back of his left hand.

Curses, spells and hexes flew back and forth at a furious pace. The frigid weather was quickly forgotten as the gathering warmed to the excitement of the confrontation.

"Vertebra tortuga! "

"Confundum vertigus!"

"Quasi asphyxia!"

"Formiga titillandum!"

"Maelstrom agutis!"

"Trepidandum mortalis!"

To the delight of their audience, the two men viciously assailed one another with a fearsome arsenal of plagues, blights, infestations, ailments and unusual ballistics. They chased one another back and forth, across and around the field, leaving an accumulation of footprints in the powdered snow, dotted here and there with dark crimson blots that spread in delicate blooms on the snow until they were trampled underfoot. After nearly half and hour, both men appeared to be quite exhausted, but of the two, FitzGerald seemed to be holding up a bit better. Malfoy was panting and leaned forward, hand on his knees, looking somewhat unsteady. As FitzGerald raised his wand yet again, his eyes focused on Malfoy, he did not notice one of the onlookers lift his wand. "Crucio!" shouted MacNair.

FitzGerald gasped as a convulsion of pain wracked his body . His wand fell from his hand, but he desperately grasped for it and, in visible agony, pointed his wand at Malfoy. "Aqua torrentialis frigitum!" A flood of ice-cold water poured down on Malfoy's head, and he screamed. His wand flew from his hand and was borne away on the current of water streaming across the field. Malfoy lay sprawled indecorously on the ground , dripping wet and shivering, as the other men ran over. Someone went to retrieve Malfoy's wand while someone else did a drying spell and wrapped Malfoy in his cloak. Finally, MacNair deigned to reverse the cruciatus curse he had inflicted on FitzGerald, and Malfoy turned to him with full fury.

"Did you think I needed your assistance? Idiot! I am quite capable of fighting my own battles, MacNair!"

While Malfoy continued to rail at MacNair, the undeclared winner of the confrontation stood up, pulled his cloak out of the air and disapparated. When he reapparated, he sank down in a chair by the fire and downed a shot of brandy to warm his bones. He was exhausted and aching, but exultant. It was too good to be true! By virtue of an extremely odd set of circumstances, he had been given the opportunity to best Malfoy - for the first time in his life. And the timing was perfect, too - as he rested his chin on the tips of his fingers, he could feel his features sharpen into their accustomed angularity.

All in all, Severus Snape was in a marvelously cheerful mood. Despite his aching muscles, despite his exhaustion, he felt wide awake. Excited. And, aroused. In his unaccustomed euphoric state, an agreeable solution to the latter condition came to mind.


	49. Intruder

Letha tossed and turned, plagued by a vague unease that she could not shake. Eventually, she drifted off to sleep, but that did not put an end to her state of agitation. Strange images flitted across her eyelids, and finally they coalesced into the shape of a tall, thin apparition in a black robe, its face shadowed beneath a black hood. The figure stood before her, pointing a wand directly at her chest. Slowly, Letha spread her arms, her eyes fixed on the unseen face. Something fluttered into the corner of her vision, and both she and her challenger turned their gaze towards it. They watched a small white feather as it twisted and twirled slowly to the ground. Then Letha looked up again and caught the glitter of a pair of black eyes. Another feather commenced its leisurely descent, and another, and another, falling faster and faster, and that was when she realized they were falling from huge wings of blinding white that unfurled from her very own shoulders. A snowy carpet of feathers lay all about her feet. Meanwhile, the hooded figure held the wand unwaveringly, aimed at her pounding heart.

She lifted her chin and regarded him sanguinely, smiling even. "Go ahead," she said calmly.

He shook his head silently, lowered his wand, turned on his heel, and strode away.

Her smile faded. "Coward!" she shouted. "Traitor! Get back here!" Then imploring: "Wait, please! Don't go!" Feathers began flying in all directions, exposing the bare quills of her naked wings. She covered her eyes as they billowed and blew and blinded her. When she opened her eyes again, it was pitch black. Letha blinked in confusion, gasping, orienting herself to the darkness. Where was she? As her eyes adjusted, the shapes around her gained a semblance of familiarity, and she recognized her room at the Patils house. She climbed out of bed and proceeded to untangle the twisted bed sheets. The dream had already faded from memory, leaving her with only a vague sense of anxiety. She took her wand out of her robe pocket and slipped it under her pillow. Not that she was yet capable of defending herself against - whatever might need defending against - but it gave her a sense of security as she lay back down in the bed. This time, she fell, into a deep dreamless sleep.

Some time later, she again opened her eyes to the darkness. Someone was in the room; she could sense it. She slipped her hand under the pillow and grasped the end of her wand. A hand encircled her wrist, gently but firmly, and as she looked up, two long slender fingers covered her mouth, suppressing her exclamation of surprise. She wrapped her free arm around his neck and his fingers were replaced by his mouth on hers, eager and voracious. She pulled Snape down onto her, and did not resist as he tugged at her nightdress, groping and grasping, sliding one hand deftly down her panties. She pressed herself to him, as if afraid he would disappear again. They luxuriated in the moment, savoring every touch, every caress, every kiss. But then Letha pushed him away gently. "Where have you been? I thought perhaps you never wanted to see me again."

He regarded her pensively for a moment. It seemed to Letha he intended to say something but changed his mind and shook his head slightly. "I promise you, that is not so." He lowered his face into the curve of her neck, burying himself in her hair, and repeated, "Believe me, that is not so." She wanted to believe him, so she did.

Letha lifted his head away from her again, so she could see his eyes, that glowed with a warmth that few people ever were permitted to see. She ran her fingers gently over his face and as she touched a rough spot on his cheek, he winced slightly. "What's the matter, Severus?" Even as she asked, in the feeble light of the dying embers, she could see the angry red gash down the slope of his cheekbone.

"It doesn't matter." But she intercepted his hand as it again reached for the soft curve of her breast. He sighed. "It is a dueling injury, nothing serious." He smirked at her. "You should see the other wizard!"

Letha's eyebrows shot up. "Severus, you didn't…"

He kissed her fully, tenderly, on the lips. "He'll be fine. Only his ego was critically injured." A rare broad, genuine grin lit up his face. "The cruelest cut of all."

Letha could not help smiling back at him, and chose not to chastise him on the evils of dueling. Instead, she took his face in her hands, carefully avoiding the laceration, and covered it in slow sensuous kisses, pulling him down, down, so close to her that their forms would have seemed to be but one.

They plunged into one another with utter abandon, each intoxicated with the very being of the other. There seemed nothing more important, more utterly essential, than the exuberance of the senses, the ability to elicit pure and profound pleasure in another.

Responding to an ancient urge, their bodies transformed in ways that were simple yet complex, universal yet unique, the call of one generation to the next. Though both cautious planners by nature, they were swept up in the moment, hapless victims of biological destiny. Yet, despite the perfect timing, and despite the young pair's lack of caution, biological imperative was to meet its match. Three loud raps on the door, and Letha jumped up, unceremoniously dumping her lover on the floor.

'Letha, are you all right?' Anjana's voice asked anxiously from the corridor.

'Fine, Anji!" she responded, attempting to keep her voice level. "What's the matter?' As she spoke, Letha threw on her bedclothes and hastily made herself somewhat presentable.

'There is an intruder in the house!"

'Is that so?' asked Letha, endeavouring to sound concerned.

"You sound like you're out of breath. Are you sure you're all right?"

Letha took a moment and then again gave her assurances. She glanced over in Snape's direction, but to her dismay, he was already gone. She was spared the utterance of a string of curses so vile, they would have sent a witch of delicate constitution into a swoon. Letha, made of stronger stuff, wanted to utter a few rude words of her own, but she repressed that urge as she opened the door, and smiled reassuringly into Anjana's earnest brown eyes as she let her in. The twins Padma and Parvati flew in after her, making a beeline for Letha's bed. Despite the late hour, they were full of energy, heedless of their mother's concern, and proceeded to bounce on the bed with great gusto. If Letha was in no mood for such youthful exuberance, she did not reveal her dismay. Instead, she patiently sat for a while with her childhood friend. It didn't really matter, any of it. The interruption was no more than that; he'd come to see her again. He'd come to see her, to be with her; he missed her; he hadn't forgotten her; perhaps he even…maybe he actually - _loved_ her? She suppressed the ridiculous thought, best as she could. But the possibility wriggled around her mind, and perhaps explained the tiny smile she could not seem to wipe from her face. Anjana looked at her curiously a few times, but did not ask any questions Letha might have been uncomfortable answering.


End file.
